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She awoke crying before the sun was up. It had been a long night of dirty, laughing faces and hard, grasping hands, of pain and stench and filth and helplessness. Her head was pounding, still full of memories that wouldn't fade, of voices that refused to die. And there was Samson, already outside the tent knocking over crates and cans and making a racket that blended with the noises in her head into a fugue of sound that threatened to engulf her.
Jeena clasped her hands over her ears, screaming for him to stop and the voices to go away, but the clamor rose until it sounded like laughter. Lurching from the tent, she grabbed the shotgun and leveled it through tear-blinded eyes at the tormentor in her mind.
"Stay away from me, goddam you! Don't touch me!"
Samson jumped at the shout, causing the crates and cans to tumble around him, pinning him in. He saw the tear-streaked face staggering toward him, and sensed her anger. Whether in a burst of sudden insight or from an instinct for survival, he understood his danger and began desperately clawing at the debris keeping him prisoner. He watched helplessly as she raised the weapon. Unable to move, he began to whine and cry, and then suddenly in a high-pitched voice, he cried out a single word.