“Step away!” one yells, gun drawn. “Step away with your hands up!”

But Charlie won’t. Neither will she defend herself. Both hands administer to me. One of the guys pistol-whips her in the back of the head and Charlie goes limp. Another kicks her in the ribs just to make sure. She doesn’t respond. The men then enjoy a moment of celebration—they have just apprehended the Rat Burglar; they’re all going to get laid—and as they congratulate each other I see behind them Jagjeet streaking into the room, a blackjack in each hand.

A flurry of startling activity ensues and several harrowing but nonlethal-looking blows precipitate the men onto the floor. Jagjeet rouses Charlie, who groggily tries to resume dispensing antitoxin, but sirens are already screaming outside the building.

“Cops,” Jagjeet says. “We have to go.”

“No. He needs at least three more shots. At thirty-second intervals.”

“We’re leaving,” he says. “Get the sword.”

But Charlie ignores the sword. She cuts my pant leg off, circles the puncture wound, writes 100 mg Nix. Then she grabs a radio from one of the downed men and, assuming a comically masculine voice, makes the report to 911 as she casts about the room, looking for something. She finds it, her eyes locking with mine. She beelines for the camera, her face getting bigger and bigger until the only thing I can see is her watery eyes.

It clicks off.

“She risked her life to save you,” Jagjeet says.

“I need a minute alone with this,” I say.

“Jimmy could show up any second.”

“I need to look at this alone. Just give me one minute of privacy with it. You can stand right outside the door. And then we can go. Please?”

Jagjeet looks wary, peers out the window again for any sign of Jimmy the Hat, nods reluctantly. When he closes the door behind him I rewind to the moment when she takes off her mask. I can’t believe it. I see it but it doesn’t compute. Play, rewind, play, rewind: it doesn’t change. It’s always Charlie’s face.

I burrow my head into a pillow and make a keening, locust-like sound of misery. Then I scrape myself together, open the window, step out onto the fire escape, descend to the pavement, and, as fast as possible, I gimp down the street.

Do I or Don’t I?

Do I or Don’t I?