“After you recovered—I should say, after the wound healed—you returned to work. For how long?”

     “About six weeks.”

     “Did it go well?”

     “If it'd gone well I wouldn't be sitting here, would I?”

     “Clearly there were residual effects from the shooting.”

     “I am not afraid,” I said.

     “No one has used that word.”

     “The word has been used, believe me.”

     “You left the force after eighteen years, only two years short of your pension. You took a job that is very similar to the one you left, but without the element of physical hazard. You don't carry a gun, and you aren't likely to be shot at.”

     “Once is enough. Do you have a problem with that?”

     “I'd say you have nothing to prove.”

     “Exactly right. I don't want to end up looking like some damn punchboard.”

     “That sounds reasonable to me.”

     “I am not afraid. That is not the reason I don't want to be a cop anymore.”

     “I accept that.”

     “You say you do. But you don't. Not really.”

     A ponderous silence.

     “I've been going over my notes,” he said, as if to change the subject. “One thing struck me. The shooting. You didn't mention drawing your gun.”

     “I didn't draw it.”

     “You didn't have time?”

     “Get real. If I had time to turn and face the wall—remember?—I had time to draw my gun.”

     “Why didn't you?”

     “I don't know,” I said. My voice was flat. I was trying hard to keep it that way. “Not a night goes by, I don't ask myself that question.”

     “And what do you think is the answer?”

     “I couldn't say. I had my gun out of the holster plenty