He picked it up and tossed it as far away as he could, in case he was underestimating the injury. He then tore open the buttons on the attacker’s light cotton shirt, which was now sodden with blood, exposing the laceration. The man was in shock: his complexion, hard to make out in the wan light, had turned grayish white. Pierre took off his own shirt — a beige McGill University pullover — and wadded it up to use as a pressure bandage.

Molly returned several minutes later, panting from running. “An ambulance is coming, and so are the police,” she said. “How is he?”

Pierre kept pressure on the wadded shirt, but the fabric was squishing as he leaned on it. “He’s dying,” he said, looking up at her, his voice anguished.

Molly moved closer, looming over the assailant. “You don’t recognize him?”

Pierre shook his head. “I’d remember that chin.”

She kneeled next to the man, then closed her eyes, listening to the voice only she could hear.

Not fair, thought the man. I only killed people Grozny said deserved it. But I don’t deserve to die. I’m not a fucking—

The unspoken voice stopped abruptly. Molly opened her eyes and then gently took Pierre’s blood-covered hands off the drenched shirt. “He’s gone,” she said.

Pierre, who was still on bended knee, rocked slowly backward. His face was bone white and his mouth hung open slightly. Molly recognized the signs: just as the attacker had been moments ago, Pierre himself was now in shock. She helped him move away from the body and got him to sit down on the grass at the base of a redwood tree.

After what seemed an eternity, they at last heard approaching sirens.

The city police arrived first, coming through the north gate, followed a few moments later by a campus police car that arrived from the direction of the Moffit Library. The two vehicles pulled up side by side, near where the stand of redwoods began.