As Jack rounded the corner toward the police station car park, he suddenly stopped dead. By the passenger door of his car, a shadowy figure was trying to break in.

Jack didn’t shout out; he just ran, full pelt, in the hope that his gaining momentum would give him a good enough head start to catch the would-be thief before they even saw him coming. All Jack could think about was the notebook in the glovebox. And then he thought about how old the car was and how easy it was to bloody well break into.

Just as the passenger door finally gave way, Jack launched himself at the thief and they both hit the ground hard. The man’s shoulder hit him in the face and a piercing pain shot through his nose, rendering him useless for long enough to allow the man to scrabble to his feet and run. The chase was on.

His target was hefty and slower than Jack—but Jack reckoned he’d be handy when caught, so he’d have to get the upper hand quickly. He swiftly gained ground and the second they turned onto a street with a grass verge, Jack dived at the man’s legs, taking them both down onto the soft turf. Jack grabbed the man’s right arm with the intention of twisting it up his back, but he was too strong and shrugged Jack off like a rag doll. The man, unable to get to his feet more quickly than Jack, flipped onto his back so when Jack came in again, he got a fist to the side of his jaw, sending him spinning across the pavement. Now the man had time to stand up and make a break for it again while Jack was still on his hands and knees, trying to make sense of where he was. He shook the dizziness away, stood, stumbled into a tree trunk, righted himself, focused on the running figure through his streaming eyes, and powered after him.

Jack rounded a corner just seconds after the man and, out of the blue, was sucker-punched to the ground. It was like running into an iron bar. The pain was sickening. Jack flipped onto his hands and knees and vomited on the pavement. His nose dripped bright red blood onto the gray concrete and his eyes watered in sympathy.

The man stood over Jack. As Jack’s head spun and he tried to stop himself from vomiting again, he heard a few words.

“. . . not stealing, you prick . . . a gift.”

Jack’s head became too heavy to hold up. He lay down on the hard, cold pavement and looked straight into the light on top of the lamppost above his head. He could feel the blood running down his throat, so he rolled onto his side and spat it out. From this position, Jack watched the man’s dirty white sneakers walk away.

A moment later, a Yorkshire terrier sniffed its way along the blood trail and licked at Jack’s face, bringing him back to himself. As he clambered back to his feet, using the wall for balance, the pain in his face had subsided just enough for the pain in his arm to take over. It was excruciating and, although he had never broken a bone in his life, it felt like it must be broken. Jack pushed his aching body upright, fell back against the wall, pushed himself vertical again and spread his legs in the hope of being steadier on a wider base. He wobbled on the spot while the elderly woman in front of him, the terrier now tucked under her arm, came into focus and asked if he needed an ambulance. Jack shook his head and started back toward the police station.