But behind closed doors there was pacing, weeping, chugging down pills, confession, and the intent desire to remember the stories they were told as children in the hope of blotting out present fears. Some ate or drank. Some contemplated the priesthood. A few were certain there were monsters and divinities in the Grove; they sought to understand what that meant.
The answer had a heavy Hispanic accent: “Do I know you?” He moved closer. “Could he not come himself?”
“Raul?” she said.
“I'm the Death-Boy,” he said, and pulled the trigger.
“They sure are,” she said.
Tesla was thrown backward by the bullet and knocked down, looking up at the stars. She heard a commotion, and a shot, followed by shrieks from women Raul had told her would be gathering about this time. But what interested her was an ugly spectacle above her: a sick and brimming sky about to drown her in tainted light. She wondered if this was death. Then she lost consciousness.
“Don't die. Don't die,” murmured Raul.