When Sam had said that he and his family had been in the stadium trying to “help people whenever we could,” he thought I knew what he was talking about.
Dad was propped up with tubes in his nose. His chest was bandaged, and he was lying very still, and looking old. But his eyes were lively, and his hands warm as he clasped mine.
“I was so worried about you,” he croaked.
“I wasn’t worried about you, because I thought you had been killed, and was therefore dead.” Dad and I had a big laugh over this as Sam and Mehri eyed us warily. I suppose this says something about where I get my sense of humour.
“When they came at me,” Dad explained, “those hounds, some cop pulled out his weapon and took a shot at them. Well whoever this guy was, he shot me instead.”
“Uh, what an i***t,” I said, inwar
