I said.“Oh don’t give me that shit,” Anna said. I’d gone through the expected ordeal; a statement at the police department in Detroit, several informational interrogations, paperwork up the yin yang, a stop at the emergency room for two stitches on my arm and now, several hours later, I’d finally come home.“I’d tell you if I’d been shot,” I said. “They taught us that in marriage class. Always tell your partner about gunshot wounds.”“What is it then?” she said, ignoring me. Her tone was high cynical and severely pissed off.“A chunk of metal from the car,” I said. The truth was, the doctor hadn’t been entirely sure. It could have been a fragment from the bullet. A fragment from the windshield. Or, much less likely, a scrape from the car. In all likelihood, I had been shot. I just couldn’t admit it to myself. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to say it to my wife.“Shrapnel from the bullet?”“No, I think it was from the car crashing into the wall,” I said.
