Hoff struck a match on his boot and lit the yard candle again. The flame stood straight up in the still air. Lens kept his blade flat against Dorran’s throat.
“Nineteen counts,” Hoff said. “The candle is the clock. Start where you stopped.”
Dorran did not turn his head. He looked at Lens’s chest, the way Calen had told him to.
The edge had not cut him yet. Still, it had been there long enough to dry his mouth.
Then Dorran said, “Sorry.” He said it to Lens, quietly.
“Sorry,” he said again. Then he began to count. “One.”
He stepped on the count. His foot came down flat on the sand, his shoulder turned, and the blade slid off his throat by the width of a hand.
Lens had to follow it. He took a step, and his guard came with him.
