I suddenly remembered Skippy. “He’s being taken care of by a friend,” said Mary Catherine. “Whose friend?” I asked. “Yours,” Mary Catherine replied. “Your girlfriend, the vet.” “Jane?” “She called 911 and reported you missing. She was directed to me,” Izzy recounted. “She said she was your girlfriend and she couldn’t reach you and that you went to meet the Hacker. We told her you were alive and gave her your keys. Was that okay?” “Yeah, of course.” “Jane seems very nice,” Mary Catherine beamed. “She was very worried about you and relieved that you were alive. She was here while you were unconscious and said she would be here tonight, after work. So, tell me about her.” “I can’t. Traumatic amnesia, remember?” A doctor came in and checked me, then ran over the long menu of damage, including a mysterious funnel-shaped burn on my left forearm. Most of my wounds were the result of slugs that were broken up and shredded by the tire and exited the far side as a confetti of lead and steel that, fortunately, had lost most of its punch and ended up in my skin or the muscle underneath.
