I don’t even hear him. One second I’m staring at the Coke can, and the next an arm snakes around my neck. Reflexively I raise my hands, trying to point the revolver back and behind me at my attacker. The man jams his hip into the small of my back, angling me away from him. The revolver is torn from my hand and thumps to the floor. My hands scrabble at the man’s elbow, now jammed underneath my chin. A vise starts squeezing my neck, a forearm on one side, bicep on the other. Classic sleeper hold. He’s not trying to crush my windpipe—he’s trying to restrict blood flow to my brain. I kick wildly, trying to find purchase, but he’s leaning back and lifting me up on my toes. Everything starts swimming in my vision. It usually takes ten seconds for a victim of a sleeper hold to pass out. That’s my last conscious thought before everything goes black.

I SLOWLY SWIM up to consciousness and open my eyes to darkness. My throat aches like one big swollen bruise. I cough and spit, making sure my airway is clear. It is. I sit up, taking my time. I’m in the same room where I passed out, everything dark except for the light from the street leaching in through the window. The room is spinning like I just stepped off a carnival ride, one of those swirling octopus-arm things bolted together by a sullen, resentful guy with a beer gut and a general antipathy toward human beings, women specifically. On the plus side, I’m not tied up or dead.

I lean forward and place both palms on the floor, bracing myself as I will the room to stop moving. As soon as it does, I get to my feet. Whoever attacked me—and I’m willing to bet a thousand bucks his name is Finn—is long gone. I find my S&W on the floor. It feels light so I check the cylinder. Empty. A black, oily anger rises in me. The son of a bitch unloaded my revolver and took my bullets.

I go the window to glance outside. That’s when I notice that the Coke can is gone, but in its place are four bullets, standing neatly in a row. He left me four bullets and took one, a final fuck you. My hands tremble ever so slightly as I pick up the bullets and reload my revolver. But beneath my mounting rage runs a smaller but brighter thread, like a seam of precious ore in rock. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s fear.

WHEN I WALK back into Ethan’s house, Wilson yips and then dances around my feet. “Good boy,” I say, rubbing behind his ears.

Ethan lurches up off the couch in the den. “What time is it,” he says, rubbing his face. “Where were you?”