I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing: the simple disaster of the slender wooden spike thrust through Watson’s colorful button-up shirt. The blackish ooze of motor-oil blood from the wound. I sat numb, watching as Melinda lowered Watson to the floor, tenderly, taking care to shield his head from the broken glass scattered all around.

Janis made a small sound, and I reached for her automatically. She took my hand and squeezed hard. ...