That’s all.
And I’m not too late.
I don’t get to be too late.
67
Hannah
Idon’t panic.
Not when the convoy goes silent.
Not when the driver doesn’t answer.
Not when the first shot hits the front vehicle.
Panic gets people killed.
I move.
Fast.
“Down!” I shout, already grabbing the nearest kid and pulling him to the floor of the transport van.
Glass shatters.
Gunfire erupts outside.
Too close.
Too controlled.
This wasn’t random.
Ambush.
“Stay low!” I snap, shoving another volunteer down as bullets tear through the side panel.
My pulse kicks up—but my hands stay steady.
Always steady.
“Are you hit?” someone cries.
“Not yet,” I fire back.
The van jerks hard—
Then stops.
Engine dead.
Bad.
Very bad.
“Out!” a voice shouts outside.
