One Day in a Small-Town Desert, chapter 12, page 4

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Pí‘oro Kılímo, bloody and sore, let the police carry most of his bulk as they escorted him down his hallway, wrists handcuffed together behind his back.

He’s held out as long as he could, but he had failed. They were going to search the whole house now. They were going to find the chapel. They were going to arrest his darling Vata.

The big man’s knee buckled briefly and he stumbled to catch his balance. A policeman shoved his back, snarling, “Keep moving, Korutuzho.”

Pí‘oro grinned as he continued hobbling down the hall. The police were just as bloody and messed up as he was. He’d given as good as he got.

If only the foreign kid had helped him, just maybe they could’ve held them off. It certainly would have evened the sides a bit. But Bhanar was out the door and gone before Pí‘oro had been pulled to his feet. No-good Névo-brained punk.

Almost to the entryway, Pí‘oro’s chest shattered. His brains exploded in his skull. The floor slammed against his face, but he barely noticed. Flames engulfed his body. He tried to crawl away, but he had no arms. Waves of insane torture inundated his consciousness, overwhelming him, pulling him under.

Pain. Nothing but pain, deep within the core of his very essence. Pí‘oro’s mind, body, and soul surrendered to the unbearable agony. Pí‘oro was pain.

And then he was nothingness.

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