Dead and Gone Read Online Free Page A

other. Remember her grunting and tugging at them, trying to get them on. What color were they? Concentrate .
    But don’t press. It’s there. It’s in there. It’s all in there.
    And I was going to need every bit of it soon.
    In solitary, you don’t tell time by the sun, or by a clock. You tell it by meals. No matter what they are, no matter how bad they taste, they mark the time. Sometimes you can get a trusty to talk to you. Sometimes even a guard. If you’re connected good enough, your people can get stuff to you, too. But you can’t count on any of that. Just the meals. And the getting ready.
    I worked and I rested and I ate. That’s all I did. But I did it all as hard as I could, gave it everything I had. So I’d have more to give it the next time.
    “T he optic nerve was impacted,” one of the endless doctors told me. “The bullet also tore some of the muscles that keep the eyes operating binocularly.”
    “What does that mean?” I asked, speaking slowly. Carefully, like I wasn’t used to it yet.
    “There won’t be any need for a … prosthesis. The right eye won’t process images, and there may be some slight pigmentation shift, but it’s organically sound. It doesn’t have to be removed. It may, however … wander a bit.”
    “Wander?”
    “The two eyes will no longer work as one. You’ll still be able to read, drive a car, do everything you did before. Your depth perception will be affected, but that’s just a matter of acclimation—you won’t even notice it after a while.”
    “Oh.”
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “But you’re one lucky man; I can tell you that. If the bullet had been a fraction of a millimeter off its path, you’d be dead. Or severely brain-damaged, without question.”
    “I can’t remember …”
    “That’s really not my department,” he brushed me off. “My specialty is ophthalmological surgery. This consultation is about your vision. We wanted you to have a sense of the various … sensations you’ll be experiencing when we remove the bandaging.”
    “When will you—?”
    “In a week or two, perhaps,” he said dismissively. The three young residents didn’t say anything, watching him deal with the stupid bum who’d gotten himself beat up and shot in the head.
    When he was done, they followed him out of the room, a small flock of white-coated sheep.
    “T he reason it hurts so much to swallow is that your sternum is cracked,” Rich said.
    “Sternum?”
    “The central bone in your chest. In fact, it’s the central bone in your entire body. All the other bones grow from that point.”
    “Oh.”
    “And, of course, your throat is significantly abraded. From when you ripped the tubes out.”
    “I don’t …”
    “Of course not. You were unconscious then. Or, at least, in some subconscious state. Anyway, there’s no permanent damage. Everything will heal. You’ll be the same as you were before.”
    “What was I … before?”
    “That will come, too,” Rich promised.
    I would not think of Pansy. I would not do it. I knew what it would cost. I had to wait until I could make the payments.
    “H ow’s your memory coming?” one of the cops asked me.
    “I remember you,” I told him, trying for a proud tone in my voice, like a good kid who’d done all his chores. “You’re Detective Bond, right?”
    “Baird.”
    “Sorry.”
    “That’s okay,” he said, shooting a look over at his partner. “Any of it coming back to you?”
    “The accident …”
    “Accident? No. You were shot. In the head. Didn’t they tell you?”
    “Said … something. My eye. But I thought it was … in the car, maybe? Then it crashed? I don’t …”
    “Come on,” Baird said to his partner. They both stood up and walked out.
    C ops play suspects like they’re fish.
    “Fish”—that’s what the cons call new prisoners.
    “Incoming.” In war, that word’s always bad news. Inside, it means fresh meat … but some of that news can be just as