She’s lying on her side. A knot of pain pulses in the center of her chest. She’s wrapped in a blanket, her head half-shawled with it, her face only partially exposed to the grayness before her. Despite the blanket she’s cold. She makes no move, no sound. Takes shallow, silent breaths through her open mouth. Listens hard. All as Charlie had taught her, though she had not believed she would ever have need of such instruction. She senses a proximity of others but hears no voices. The only sound is a low, drumming monotone, not unfamiliar, yet it takes her a minute to recognize it as rain on the roof. And now she remembers she’s on a cot in a dimly lighted room and understands that she’s staring at a bare wall not a foot from her face. Then she remembers everything. . . . Running through the streets and alleys. The fight with Apache. Crossing from roof to roof. The sight of the bright lights of better streets—how close those streets had seemed!
