That’s why I had such high hopes for the Mimico trip. If someone whose life had been saved, someone like Floella or Zeke, would go on the record, a simple quote could answer everything. The proof was in the people.

As I bent the Jeep around another corner, I felt myself creep. Already in a recess of my head was the subject in Mimico, the subject I wanted for the story. It startled me to realize that I was pulling for Dr. Kriss. Like the moneymen, I was invested in her success. It felt as if the world around me were drawing something in from my imagination, like the shape from last night, and mixing it into the truth.

I decided to distract myself by visiting one of the encampments. Maybe someone had heard news of Floella or had another friend taken in by Common Dreams.

That’s when I saw the boys again. I must’ve driven in a circle. They weren’t crouching anymore, but standing shoulder to shoulder. One had his hands over his ears. Then another extended his arm, I saw the glint again, and my window exploded, glass blowing across the seat as I swerved up on the curb, my head slamming the roof before the Jeep met the pole.

5.

I roused in the back of the truck. They had me on a stretcher. Someone was tweezing glass from my cheek and the pain was blinding, one side of my face swollen and hot, as if boiled. I felt the plastic mask over my mouth and breathed deeply.

When I blinked awake again, eyelids sticking, I was in Ascension Hospital, and there was Dr. Kriss.

“Everything is going to be alright,” she said, smiling.

I touched the throbbing side of my face. Dr. Kriss arranged the pillow behind me.

“You were lucky,” she said, quickly checking my pupils with a flashlight. “It’s not more than a minor concussion. The glass missed your eye. I stitched you up myself.”

To this day, in a certain winter light, you can see the scars on my forehead and cheek.

“The bullet missed you,” she said.

“Bullet?”

“Some kids shot at your window. I came off the golf course as soon as I heard.”

I looked over my bruised arms in search of an IV.

“It’s okay,” she said, reading my mind. “You didn’t need a transfusion. I suppose it would’ve created a conflict of interest if you’d been given the solution.”

My smile was cut short by the pain in my cheek.

“Sorry,” she said, and took one of my hands in hers. “Just relax, Whitney. You’ll be out of here later today.”

I asked about the Jeep. She said it was a write-off. I closed my eyes while she stroked my hand. Very few women had ever touched me like this. I felt safe, ready for sleep. Then I heard: “Animals.”