This was my third visit in as many days, and though I’d done my best to cheer him, Jacobi’s mood remained unrelentingly dark. I was watching him sleep when his swollen eyes flickered open to slits.

“Hey, Warren.”

“Hey, Slick.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like the world’s biggest horse’s ass.” He coughed painfully, and I winced in sympathy.

“Take it easy, bud.”

“It sucks, Boxer.”

“I know.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it. Dreaming about it.” He paused, touched the bandages over his nose. “That kid popping me while I stood there holding my dick.”

“Um. I think it was your cell phone, Jacobi.”

He didn’t laugh. That was bad.

“No excuse for it.”

“Our hearts were in the right place.”

“Hearts? Shit. Next time, less heart, more brains.”

He was right, of course. I was taking it all in, nodding, adding a few strokes in my own mind. Like, would I ever feel right with a gun in my hand again? Would I hesitate when I shouldn’t? Shoot before thinking? I poured Jacobi a glass of water. Stuck in a striped straw.

“I blew it. I should’ve cuffed that kid —”

“Don’t even start, Boxer. It’s we shoulda—and you probably saved my life.”

There was a flash of movement in the doorway. Chief Anthony Tracchio’s hair was slicked across his head, his off-duty clothes were plain and neat, and he was gripping a box of candy. He looked like a teenager coming to pick up his first date. Well, not really.

“Jacobi. Boxer. Glad I caught you two together. How ya doing, okay?” Tracchio wasn’t a bad guy, and he’d been good to me; still, ours was no love affair. He bounced a bit on his toes, then approached Jacobi’s bed.