I awake later to bright white lights. The lights burn my eyes until my retinas get used to them.
“Where am I?” I say, for lack of something wittier. No doubt, the real Steve Jobs would have had something far more clever to open with.
“Albany Medical Center,” answers the man standing at the end of my bed.
“Are you Clint Eastwood?”
“Just a close facsimile thereof,” Detective Miller says.
It takes a second or two, but eventually my eyes are able to focus enough in on him.
“Was I rescued by three private detectives who looked like thugs?” I say. “Or did I dream it?”
He smiles. Or is it a smirk?
“They didn’t give you a hard time, I hope.”
I would shake my head if not for the pain. So I whisper, “Nope.”
“Good, because I have an idea.”
“Does it involve chasing after psychopathic
