“There she goes. Running flat out. Little Sojourner. Not really dressed for a sprint. Moves pretty fast for a woman of her age though. She’s carrying something. Hard to see from this far away.

Maybe, if we moved a little closer.

Sojourner has a gun in each hand. She swings them, awkwardly as she dashes across the gravel. Barefoot. Her evening dress looks a mess. That backpack looks heavy. There’s a sheen to her dark skin. But, look; it isn’t sweat. It’s blood.

That isn’t a pattern on her dress either. That’s blood too. Her braids are spraying a trail of red in their wake. That’s a lot of blood.

It’s not her blood.”