Cupid lined up the sights of a crossbow that was wider than his body and almost as long, hearing the resistance from the wire against the metal and loving it. He felt that wire pushing the polish aside and gripping it, twanging off it like tiny guitar licks. Felt it right in his neck bones. He was like a part of it, squidged on to the end, the life hidden behind the trigger.

He loaded one bolt: ratcheted it up like a handbrake, like he could make it as tense as he wanted, like it would never stop getting tighter until he stopped.

Before it hit the back of the John’s head, the bolt got away from him.