A hand appeared at eye view, and he gasped thinking it was her. But the fingers had hair, as did the arm, and he felt himself breathe again.

“Here, let me help you.”

Beefy fingers grasped his arm and half-lifted his body. He pushed up with his other palm and found himself facing a man with deep-blue eyes and a pleasant face, wearing concern.

“Thanks,” he said, bending to look around him to locate the bag. That’s when he very nearly collapsed back to the ground.

It was gone!

Oh my God, the bag he’d worked so hard to possess was gone.

She’d won again. His troubles now bigger than before because she must have followed him and taken it and now she would know that he knew. Now she would know. And then she’d come for him. Before the police, before anyone who could help, she would come and—

“You don’t look so good. Maybe we’ll get you to a doctor. You need help?”

Yes, I need help! Nothing you can do though. And thanks for being so huge and knocking me over and sealing my fate.

He fought to regain his composure and instead replied, “Oh my God, I’ve dropped my wife’s bag, and someone’s stolen it. It’s lost.”

“No, no, not lost,” a female voice said behind him. “I picked it up.”

He rotated with the speed of a discus thrower to face the man’s companion. In her outstretched hand she held Orelia’s bag.

“Thank you. Thank you,” he said, snatching the bag as he checked behind her for signs of pursuit. Then he threw the handles of the gray tote over his shoulder. Ignoring the couple, he swung his head from side-to-side as he scanned the street.

He had to get away, and quick.

“Luck, you fabulous friend,” he whispered beneath his breath, when he saw his escape arrive as if on cue.

A bus pulled into a stop within ten yards of him. The destination didn’t matter if it carried him far from here. He felt Bear and the girl stare at his back as he took off in another Olympic speed sprint.

He bounded onto the bus through the open middle door and headed for a window seat facing the pavement side. If someone had seen him and followed him aboard he wanted to know so he could at least attempt to run.

He slumped into the double bench, but he didn’t relax for a second as he positioned himself on the outside to prevent anyone from sitting beside him. The last thing he needed was a nosy person noting he carried a woman’s handbag.

Now to catch his breath, which came in ragged gasps that showed how unfit he had become from sitting writing for years. With each breath, oxygen filled his lungs and the nausea which had crept back from, he imagined, over-exertion, began to subside.

He still needed to pee but perhaps the adrenaline from his escape had lessened the urge. Thank god for that. It must be part of the fight or flight response. Don’t suppose you can do battle or run while crossing your legs.