shot by kincaid

After that I spent a few minutes just . . . breathing. Listening to the water around me. The ticking of the clock. The peaceful silence. Drinking in the comforting sense of solitude all around me.
Then I said out loud, "Screw this Zen crap. Maybe she'll be early." And I got up to leave.
I came out of the cabin and into the early-afternoon sun, quivering with pleasant tension and tired and haunted - and hopeful. I shielded my eyes against the sun and studied the city's skyline.
My foot slipped a little, and I nearly lost my balance, just as something smacked into the wall of the cabin behind me, a sharp popping sound, like a rock thrown against a wooden fence. I turned, and it felt slow for some reason. I looked at the Water Beetle's cabin wall, bulkhead, whatever, behind me and thought, Who splattered red paint on my boat?
And then my left leg started to fold all by itself.
I looked down at a hole in my shirt, just to the left of my sternum.
I thought, Why did I pick the shirt with a bullet hole in it?
Then I fell off the back of the boat, and into the icy water of Lake Michigan.
It hurt, but only for a second. After that, my whole body felt deliciously warm, monstrously tired, and the sleep that had evaded me seemed, finally, to be within reach.


Changes Chapter 49, Page 544-545