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Myron dropped to his knees first. Then he fell forward onto his hands.

Blood poured off him. Myron stared down and watched it pool on the pavement below him. There were screams and shouts and everything seemed to be in motion.

Myron blinked and felt the cold.

He realized that he had been hit—that he was heading into a state of shock.

Move, he told himself. Move or die.

There was no plan, no conscious contemplation beyond the simple idea of not staying still. He knew that he’d been hit and hit badly. The pain came at him in a roar and spread. It felt as though a giant animal had taken a huge bite out of his neck. From his hands and knees, he tried to get up. No go. He pushed instead off one leg, a wounded sprinter in the blocks.

“We aren’t bulletproof…”

Hadn’t Win said that just the other day?

Apropos.

Still, he managed to lurch forward a foot at a time.