uses harry's coat

“Oh,” Bob said, his voice very small.
“You ready?” Butters asked. “Can you access the duster?”
“Sure. I tutored Harry on these spells.”
“Keep the bullets off me for as long as you can,” Butters said.
“Got it,” Bob said. “Let’s give ’em hell, boss.”
“That’s the spirit,” Butters said. He took a deep breath, and then put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, Harry. You’ve done enough. I got this.”
I wanted to scream at Butters not to go, not to throw his life away—to go get the kids and try to run. It would have been just as hopeless, but he might not realize that. And at least they’d die with bullets in them instead of being burned to death. But I couldn’t move, or think or do anything else. The pain was simply too great. It wasn’t a headache now. It was a worldache. I didn’t have a broken arm anymore—I didn’t have a body at all. I just had pain.
But I started crying as Waldo Butters stood up, rolled the sleeves of my duster up until his hands could reach out of them, grabbed a couple of things from his vest, flung something on the floor of the porch and went out the door.


Skin Game Chapter 50, Page 424