8
Feel So Different
I don’t remember any pain that night, but I’d been shot three times and lost a lot of blood. I remember rolling over some bushes outside of Sancho’s, leaning on the horn before passing out. After that, flashes. Some old guy—not Sancho—telling me I was going to be all right. A bouncy ride in the back of a truck. A bed. A woman trying to get me to drink.
The woman I would soon come to know as Bonnie. The old guy was her husband, Clay. Bonnie and Clay Canton.
I spent two months recovering in their home when I should have been starting my senior year at St. Stephen’s in Austin. Clay had removed two of the bullets in me, but had been unable to reach the third before sewing me up.
Bonnie was very kind, very warm. And very chatty. Through her, I discovered the connection
