“Don’t bother tryin’ t’ get up, dude,” a voice said from somewhere up above him. “Yer gonna be down there fer a long, long time.”

Ron recognized the voice. Dino. He tried to roll over and get a look at him, but somebody kicked him in the ribs. And the face. And the small of the back. They were all over him, an army of them, kicking, pounding him. Pain flashed everywhere. Ron couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. And after what seemed like ten thousand years, he couldn’t feel anything at all.

Sunlight. Bright glaring sunlight poked into his eyes painfully. No, not both eyes. Ron could open only one. The other was swollen shut.

They had dragged him over to the side of the hotel building and left him there, half sitting against the wall, half sprawled on the sidewalk.

It was daytime now, and people were walking by. Some of them glanced quickly at Ron and then just as quickly turned their heads away. Others never looked at him at all, even when they had to step over his outstretched legs. They kept their faces pointed straight ahead.

“Help . . .” Ron tried to say. But his mouth and throat were so raw that he could only make a horrible croaking sound.

With his one good eye Ron looked down at himself. His boots were gone, his clothes torn and spattered with blood. He felt numb all over. When he tried to move his legs, pain flashed through his whole body. One of his hands was swollen and blue; he couldn’t move the fingers at all. His pockets had been ripped open and everything taken out of them—keys, money, credit card, ID card, everything.

Slowly, painfully, Ron tried to push himself up onto his feet. His legs wouldn’t hold him.

Got to get back . . . to the hotel . . . can’t stay here . . .

So he crawled, with pain shooting through him at every movement. Hundreds of people walked past, most of them visitors like himself. But no one stopped to help. Ron crawled along the sidewalk and pulled himself into the doorway of the hotel.

He passed out on the dusty carpet of the hotel lobby. When he awoke again, he saw that the lobby was just as empty as it had always been.

He edged over to the sign-in machine.

“Help . . . me,” he moaned. “Call . . . hospital . . . police . . .”

The machine did nothing.

Ron’s mind swirled. Then he realized he was dealing with a narrowly programmed machine. He took a ragged breath. “Give me . . . key . . . the key to my room.” His voice sounded strange, muffled, as it came through his swollen lips.

The machine’s scratchy voice tape responded, “Are you a registered guest in this hotel?”

It hurt even to breathe. Ron sat at the base of the machine and painfully nodded his head. “Yes . . . Ronald Morgan . . .”