In a rush of movement, Jared flung open the door and jumped into the doorway. The door swung into the wall with a boom. At that moment, as he was focused on the hushed, dank, dim room, the ladies room door crashed open and Kinsey rushed out. Jared whirled, bringing the revolver to bear, but Kinsey had him.

With a roar of gunfire, he was hit in the chest below the sternum, and again in the upper chest, on his right side. He felt the second bullet tear a hole through his back. His shot went wild, punching through the sheet metal roof where it extended beyond the wall, wailed into the sky. The twin impacts threw him spinning through the doorway, and he landed on the floor, where it met the wall. As he fell he hit a metal garbage can, knocked it sliding across the floor, where it came to rest half under a stainless steel sink.

Jared's breath came in short gasps, and his legs had gone numb, but he desperately swung the pistol around to face the doorway. Just as Kinsey came around the doorjamb, Jared fired. The report of the magnum was thunderous in the restroom.

The bullet caught Kinsey right where arm meets shoulder, and he was spun out of sight. Jared could see a fine spray of blood hissing on the broiling cement sidewalk, and something else.

His attacker had dropped his gun. It lay right in the doorway, reflecting the blue desert sky. Jared gritted his teeth and leveled his revolver on the weapon.

When he went for the gun, Jared figured he would have a second or two to finish him. Slowly, he realized he could hear hoarse screaming, just around the corner. After a moment, the screaming turned to sobbing.

"You stinking albino! Why won't you die?"

Jared held the revolver in a tight grip, "Come in here and I'll explain it to you." He was proud of how steady he sounded. He certainly didn't feel it. His hands kept trembling, and he concentrated on steadying his aim.

The man did not respond, nor did he come into view. Blood and sweat mingled and poured off of Jared as he waited. Gradually, as his medical implants kicked in once more, the hemorrhaging slowed, but Jared could feel the hard, coppery tickle of blood in his right lung, it made him want to cough quite badly. He resisted the urge as best he could, forced to his ears to listen through the roar of blood and the ringing that comes after gunfire, and his brain to wait for his enemy to make a move.

He heard an engine's roar, and tires squalling. He was too weak to stand, but he struggled to get up, and finally gave up and dropped on the floor, limp. He had forgotten the keys, and the carjacker had now taken the police car. He coughed through the haze of his injuries as the sounds of the car faded away to the southwest, toward the shortcut.

He stared at the ceiling. "He really is better at this than I am." Jared said out loud.

"Help me."

The plea came from the stalls. Jared angled his head until he could see the young man, laying on the floor half-behind the last toilet. Both of them lay there for a moment, looking across the musty, dirty floor at each other, taking solace from human contact. Tenderly, Jared rolled slowly to his right until he could see him better.

"Michael Stafford Junior, I presume?"

He nodded, "MJ. Nobody but my mom calls me Michael."