Well, he’d had an idea of what he was getting into.

“Why?” Gambol asked.

Why? Because he was thinking longer-term.

“Put in a good word for me with Coalbelcher,” he said.

Gambol smiled. “I can do that.”

Simple, easy to process. A favor given for a favor granted.

He pushed some of the ankle pain out, then worked on more of the stomach and back pains. Feeling how they naturally grouped, the musculature at the core of the body overcompensating for the damage to the back. Focusing on one damaged vertebrae, he could trace it down to legs he was just now realizing were oddly numb.

That numbness made it hard to adjust his seat and lean toward the deceased.

“Last chance! Don’t be stupid, William!”

He chose to be stupid.

Instead of stopping, he talked to Gambol. “This fix is fragile. If either one of us gets too hurt, the injuries will go back to the source. Use this opportunity to take care—”

A bullet shattered his work like so much glass, on its way to demolishing his ribcage and casting him out of consciousness.

⊙

A thousand images of himself, viewed in a thousand different realities. Each self had made its own decisions, faced its own consequences, and found its own unique perspectives. One thing was near unanimous, however, and that was that when those versions of William Giles had their power, it was this power, and they fucking hated it.

Sunlight streamed in through the window of the hospital room. It was on-site for the prison, the room flooded with an orange light, more because of the texture and color of the curtain than because of the time of day. Armed guards stood on either side of the wall, guns ready, but they were paying more attention to the television than to him. A nurse was going about her business, adjusting his IV bag, which had another bag connected to it.

He tried and failed to move, and the act made his back hurt. He groaned. His feet felt awful, too. And as he took in a deep breath—his ribs. They’d broken. He reached for the wound, to try to feel it and see if there was a trace of the bullet’s passage, and restraints clinked taut instead.

“The hell?” he asked. He immediately regretted the question. Asking made his throat hurt.

“Oh, you’re awake. Good morning, William.”

“Morning?”

“You had surgery. You were intubated, that’s why your throat hurts. I’ll page the doctor, and he’ll be along shortly to explain what happened.”

He started to move and winced again. His feet had been bandaged where the shoes had cut them up. He felt strange about that.

“I’ll get you some pain medication soon,” the nurse said, looking up at the television.

What was so important? A show? ‘Hard Boil’. The kind the other Fallen liked.