"He'd been hacked - he's dead - an axe - there's - b-blood over the schoolroom floor and - "
Clint's voice juddered, his words splintered the air.
I stared at the ground: it seemed if I didn't look at Clint it would make this moment into a dream or a story and, dream or story, it would end - happily or sadly - but it would end, and then we could both go home and everything would be alright.
"There was blood - the windowsill. And I puked."
My eyes watched Clint's hands shaking as he held them, as if in prayer.
"And I ran away!"