She asks me, begs me, to stop. The tears flooding out of her eyes punctuate the pleading. I say that I won’t, that nothing can stop me, and her pleas grow more desperate. But my bag is already packed and my boots are already laced.

They need me, I say. She says that she needs me more, and she probably does. But my bag is already packed and my boots are already laced. I say this, and she reminds me that I could untie them and unpack, and I say that I won’t. She says that she’ll never forgive me for walking away and I know that she won’t.

The door closing between us reminds me, just for a second, of the sound of a guillotine striking a block of wood. And how anything in-between is severed with a permanence that lasts a lifetime. I feel a spark of desire, a twinge of regret. And then nothing.

I lay my heart in the offered basket, and they hand me a rifle in return. The door of the helicopter gapes wide, hungry. With my bag already packed and my boots already laced, I feed it without hesitation.

Almost.