Fingers in his neck. Arms around Barrow. The world narrows, pressure punctuated about five iron points. Abby hauls. Barrow tilts, sends them both sprawling free.

Lazar barks a cough. Another. Hard, and strange-high, and none of that's good sign. But this isn't the first time someone's choked him. But some base, animal place whispers to roll himself over. Can't count on the time to stand, so it's still half on all-fours when he hauls forward, throws a clumsy bear-feint left –

(Look at me, look at me,)

Before hammering the other fist into kidney. Over, and over, pressing any chance to land.