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The winter light was fading. I was not thinking about anything in particular, and that saved my life. In the nick of time, I identified intense excitement pulsing from another brain, and reflexively I ducked, feeling a sharp shove in my shoulder as I did so, and then a hot lance of blinding pain, and then wetness and a big noise. This all happened so fast I could not definitely sequence it when I later tried to reconstruct the moment.

A scream came from behind me, and then another. Though I didn’t know how it had happened, I found myself on my knees beside my car, and blood was spattered over the front of my white T-shirt.

Oddly, my first thought was Thank God I didn’t have my new coat on.

The person who’d screamed was Portia Bellefleur. Portia was not her usual collected self as she skidded across the parking lot to crouch beside me. Her eyes went one way, then another, as she tried to spot danger coming from any direction.

“Hold still,” she said sharply, as though I’d proposed running a marathon. I was still on my knees, but keeling over appeared to be a pleasant option. Blood was trickling down my arm. “Someone shot you, Sookie. Oh my God, oh my God.”

“Take the books,” I said. “I don’t want to get blood on the books. I’ll have to pay for them.”

Portia ignored me. She was talking into her cell phone. People talked on their phones at the damnedest times! In the library, for goodness’s sake, or at the optometrist. Or in the bar. Jabber, jabber, jabber. As if everything was so important it couldn’t wait. So I put the books on the ground beside me all by myself.

Instead of kneeling, I found myself sitting, my back against my car. And then, as if someone had taken a slice out of my life, I discovered I was lying on the pavement of the library parking lot, staring at someone’s big old oil stain. People should take better care of their cars. . . .

Out.

“Wake up,” a voice was saying. I wasn’t in the parking lot, but in a bed. I thought my house was on fire again, and Claudine was trying to get me out. People were always trying to get me out of bed. Though this didn’t sound like Claudine; this sounded more like . . .

“Jason?” I tried to open my eyes. I managed to peer through my barely parted lids to identify my brother. I was in a dimly lit blue room, and I hurt so bad I wanted to cry.

“You got shot,” he said. “You got shot, and I was at Merlotte’s, waiting for you to get there.”

“You sound . . . happy,” I said through lips that felt oddly thick and stiff. Hospital.

“I couldn’t have done it! I was with people the whole time! I had Hoyt in the truck with me from work to Merlotte’s, because his truck’s in the shop. I am covered.”

“Oh, good. I’m glad I got shot, then. As long as you’re okay.” It was such an effort to say it, I was glad when Jason picked up on the sarcasm.

“Yeah, hey, I’m sorry about that. At least it wasn’t serious.”

“It isn’t?”

“I forgot to tell you. Your shoulder got creased, and it’s going to hurt for a while. Press this button if it hurts. You can give yourself pain medication. Cool, huh? Listen, Andy’s outside.”

I pondered that, finally deduced Andy Bellefleur was there in his official capacity. “Okay,” I said. “He can come in.” I stretched out a finger and carefully pushed the button.

I blinked then, and it must have been a long blink, because when I pried my eyes open again, Jason was gone and Andy was in his place, a little notebook and a pen in his hands. There was something I had to tell him, and after a moment’s reflection, I knew what it was.

“Tell Portia I said thank you,” I told him.

“I will,” he said seriously. “She’s pretty shook up. She’s never been that close to violence before. She thought you were gonna die.”

I could think of nothing to say to that. I waited for him to ask me what he wanted to know. His mouth moved, and I guess I answered him.

“. . . said you ducked at the last second?”

“I heard something, I guess,” I whispered. That was the truth, too. I just hadn’t