My first instinct is to prod the body with my foot. No volitional movement. I wring my hands and perform a spastic, tippy-toe jig of panic. No improvement is manifest. In exchange for saving the Rat Burglar’s life I offer to cut a deal with God on any terms he deems reasonable, including but not limited to swearing never to think anything bad ever again / never to do anything bad ever again / never to ask for anything else ever again, but the only response is an expanding puddle of blood on the concrete.

The term “apply pressure” comes to me, but putting down the gun doesn’t seem advisable. Neither does letting him die. Fuck.

What did I do?

What am I going to do?

When I kneel down in the hot slicker of blood, when I put the gun on the ground so I can use both hands, when I cross myself three times despite not being religious in any way whatsoever,the Rat Burglar is unresponsive. All indicators are that he is deeply unconscious. But when I try to take his ski mask off to use as a bandage, his body jolts to life. With his good arm he lashes out and spear-hands my throat. There is a gagging pain in my neck and a blinding clap of sheet lightning in front of my eyes, but I can maintain just enough clarity to see his bad arm struggle toward the gun. He gets a handle on it but isn’t strong enough to lift it, and before he gets a chance to switch hands I hit him with everything I’ve got.

“And a-one!”

It’s not much of a punch. It has no technique or art. It looks more like a sidearm pitch or an improvised swim stroke, but it has accuracy going for it. It hits the guy right in the bullet hole.

He emits a piercing, womanish screech and the gun skitters across the floor and under some crates. This constitutes a serious demotion of my prospects, as I am now forced into a gun-less physical contest with the Rat Burglar. When he springs to his feet, I try to end things early by throwing a hard, terse cross at the middle of the mask. But he steps inside the punch, crisp and clever and quick, and delivers a stiff palm heel to my solar plexus. All the air—more air than I ever knew I had—punches out of my abdomen and I double over, sucking wind.