On his back. Sirens. Movement around him. Cool pressure on his eye. Words. “Male, approximately thirty, blunt trauma to the head and eye, probable concussion . . .” “Am I . . . where?” “You’re in an ambulance. Lay still.” The figure touching his cheek, his nose, sliding something into his nostrils. “What’s your name?” “Alex.” “Alex what?” “Alex Kern.” “Do you know what year it is, Alex?” “Ummm.” For a moment he wasn’t sure. “2008?” “Good. And who’s the president?” “Fucking George Bush.” The technician snorted. “I’m going to put an IV in. It may pinch for a second.” There was a brief sting in his right elbow. “Am I—” “You’re going to be all right. The blow tore your skin, but your eye looks OK.” “What about—who got shot?” “I don’t know about that. Lay still and try to be calm.” Calm, Alex thought. Right. Calm. He took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slow, wondering what the fuck had happened. “WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED?”
