It didn't hurt.That was the first strange thing. I'd always imagined that being shot would feel like something. A burn. A blow. A flash of agony that announced itself to the whole body. Instead there was only a vast, hollow, ringing quiet, and a sensation of warmth spreading down my right arm like water from a tipped glass.I looked down.My shirt was red.It had been white a moment ago. I was almost sure of it. I remembered buttoning it, in a bedroom, in a life that felt like a very long time ago, for a gala at which a thousand people had applauded a speech about trust. Now the front of it was soaked from the shoulder to the ribs, a dark, wet, spreading stain, and something warm was running over my fingers and dripping from my knuckles onto the floor.*Huh,* I thought.My knees weren't working.I noticed that with polite interest. A kind of astonished courtesy, as if the legs had been consulted and had declined to cooperate. The concrete tilted. The smoke swung up on one side like t
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