“You weren't wearing a bulletproof vest?”

     “Soft body armor—I was. And it had insert panels to handle the magnums, but only on the front and back. When I turned, the bullet caught me in the side, where there's a couple of inches between panels. I knew, the way I hurt, the burning, it must have gone right through the fabric.

     “The one with the gun came over to me. I thought he might shoot me again. I couldn't move, I couldn't do a thing, I couldn't even breathe. Getting hit that way, it knocks your air out. So I was laying there, and he was standing over me, and I was wondering if he'd shoot me again. The floor smelled like the men's room in a bus station. I remember thinking that if he pulled that trigger, nobody was going to care. I mean really, nobody. That was the worst moment of my life, laying there in this cruddy hallway, trying to breathe the pisshole air, waiting for the next shot, knowing I was just alone, alone, alone.”

     “But he didn't kill you.”

     “He took my service revolver, and they both ran. I got my breath back, partway, but it still wasn't right. My chest hurt, it really hurt. I put my hand down there and I could feel the blood. I didn't want to look.

     “Some people came out and said they'd called an ambulance. I thought it wouldn't be too long, I could hold on. Somebody put a pillow under my head. My chest burned like hell. I could hear the siren way off. More people came out. The way they were standing around me, staring down at me, one woman was crying, it was like I was in a coffin already. I didn't like that.”

     “You were still conscious.”

     “Uh-huh. I kept telling myself, ‘You can't die as long as you stay awake.’ But I was getting real weak. I felt my shirt, it was like somebody'd splashed me with a bucket. I wondered how much could be left inside. The siren