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He opens his eyes and Edgar Ball is sitting by his bed.

No dirt on his face, so he must have cleaned up.

How much time has passed? Danny has no idea.

“Close call but you’re going to pull through,” Ball tells him, and Danny thinks that’s what they all say.

On the other hand maybe it’s the truth.

“Good thing you got behind the truck door.

If he’d been shooting a larger caliber gun the bullets would have gone right through.

But it was a .32.”

“Kid,” he manages.

“Albert Wicker,” Ball says.

“Yvonne Wicker’s brother.”

I knew that, Danny tries to say.

“Fired three or four times, dropped the gun, walked right past me.

Went out to the street and sat down on the curb and waited for the cops.

In a movie I would have tackled him, but the truth is I face-planted beside my motorcycle at the first gunshot. Sorry.”

“Okay,” Danny says.

“You… okay.”

“Thanks for saying that.

We’ve got a real suit now, Danny.

Soon as you get better.”

Danny tries to smile.

He closes his eyes.

Darkness.