"You were struck in the right side of your head by a bullet, Mr. Kurtz, but it did not penetrate your skull," said Singh in his mild, singsong voice that sounded like three chainsaws roaring to Kurtz.

Superman, thought Kurtz. Fucking bullets bounce right off.

"Why?" he said.

"What, Mr. Kurtz?"

Kurtz had to close his eyes at the thought of speaking again. Forcing himself to articulate, he said, "Why… didn't… bullet… penetrate?"

Singh nodded his understanding. "It was a small caliber bullet, Mr. Kurtz. A twenty-two. Before it struck you, it had passed through the upper arm of… of the person with you… and ricocheted off the concrete pillar behind you. It was considerably flattened and much of its kinetic energy had been expended. Still, if you had been turning your head to the right rather than to the left when it struck you, we would be extracting it from your brain as we speak—probably during an autopsy."

All in all, thought Kurtz, more information than he had needed at the moment.

"As it is," continued Singh, the soft singsong voice sawing away through Kurtz's skull, "you have a moderate-to-severe concussion and a subcranial hematoma that does not require trepanning at this time, your left eye will not dilate, blood has drained down beneath your eyes and the whites of your eyes are very bloodshot—but that is not important. We'll assess motor skills and secondary effects in the morning."

"Who…" began Kurtz. He wasn't even sure what he was going to ask. Who shot me? Who was with me? Who's going to pay for this?

"The police are here, Mr. Kurtz," interrupted Dr. Singh.

"It's the reason we haven't administered any painkiller since you regained consciousness. They need to talk to you."

Kurtz didn't turn his head to look, but when the doctor moved aside he could see the two detectives, plainclothes, one male, one female, one black, one white. Kurtz didn't know the black male. He had once been in love with the white female.