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I lift the tire iron. My pulse pounds in my ears.

“Put down whatever you found.”

I blink.

How the fuck⁠—

“Apparently you can't go five minutes without turning something into a weapon.”

Oh. Fair.

I look down at the tire iron, then back at the window. “Maybe I found a chainsaw.”

“You didn't.”

“A gun?”

“No.”

“Angry raccoon?”

“Callie.”

“That one worried you.”

The doorknob moves.

My heart slams against my ribs.

I shoved a rusted sliding bolt into place when I came in.

It rattles.

Mercer pushes harder.

The entire door moves in its frame.

That's not going to hold.

I back up and look around again.

Workbench.

Broken chair.

Lumber.

Rusty tools.

One window.

A door.

Think.

The door shudders again. Wood cracks near the latch.

I move beside it.