With garbled speech, he says, “My gun. Where’s my gun?”
“No guns. No. You’re not doing this.” Sam gets an arm around Costa’s neck and pulls him back.
“Give me my gun now!”
Costa is in a rage like I’ve never seen, and I barely recognize him. The anguished screams and moans from earlier return, and I cannot bear to hear him in this kind of pain.
“I’m gonna blow myfuckingbrains out!”
He lifts his legs in an attempt to tighten Sam’s hold around his neck and cut off his own air, and Sam is forced to lower him to the floor although he keeps his grip tight. Sam stays like this until some of the fight and tears recede.
From her spot on the floor, Amy’s voice shakes. “Costa?”
He opens his eyes.
“It’s me. Amy.” Slowly, she gets up and crosses the room until she is in front of him.
Because Costa has relaxed his body enough, Sam tentatively takes his arm away. Costa rises to a stand, his face fraught with emotion.
Amy and Costa step into each other and embrace, each silent and each reeling in the unspoken exchange flowing between them over the shared history of horror only they can understand.
