Blood trickled down the curve of his ribs, pooling in the sand. Shining black in the firelight.

"It's almost over," he said quietly, eyelids sliding to half-mast, as a slow, numbing fatigue began to steal over him.

He didn't know how many were left, but the cannon had been coming slower - farther apart, over the past couple days. The victory Max had wanted (deserved) just over the horizon.

"I'll slow ya down now. Won't be able to--" Max's fingers dug deep and fire raced along his nerves, the words catching in his throat. By the time he unstuck them, they'd changed. Were more direct. Honest. "...I wouldn't blame ya, if ya just let it be."