“I wouldn’t want to be in Dushku’s shoes right now.” He reaches with his left hand to move the hair that’s fallen over my face behind my ear, then places his hand on his stomach.
“Does it still hurt?” I ask and move my finger to his hand, tracing a line over one of the prominent scars there.
“Sometimes.”
“How many breaks?”
“They couldn’t determine.” He turns his hand and entwines his fingers with mine. “I managed to train myself to shoot with my right. Now I’m even better than I was with my left. My handwriting sucks, though.” He looks down at me. “As does my typing, which you’ve probably noticed.”
“And the leg? A gunshot wound to the calf rarely requires amputation.”
“I was shot once in the ankle and twice in the calf, from short range,” he says. “There wasn’t any chance of saving i
