Fall thirty stories backward into the night and tell me you wouldn't scream.

Wind and my life rushed past. Blood streamed out of the bullet wound torn into my shoulder, hot drops flicking against my face. Being shot was exactly as horrible as seen on TV. Gripping my shoulder using my blood-slicked, non-busted wrist, my nerves locked in full-tilt agony, kept me busy for the first ten or so floors but thirty stories was a really long way to fall.

I had to take a break from ...