BILL HAMMONS: WRITING AND RUNNING IN BOULDER, COLORADO
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“Chill?” Sally rubbed the sleeves of his shirt. “Are you cold? You could have lost a lot of blood—”

Wally dropped the towel on the table and took the girl by the arms. “Sally.”

“Yes?” Sally was on both knees before him, her hands still gripping his sleeves and her eyes gazing up into his with fear.

“I didn’t lose that much blood. I’m gonna be okay. But thanks for your concern.”

“Wally?”

“Yes, Sally?” Wally brushed back a stray lock of hair that had fallen across one of the girl’s eyes.

“I was so scared. I thought you might be dead. It’s New York City—”

“Sally.” Wally pulled the girl upward by the arms, and onto one of his thighs. “I’m alive. I guess it just proves true what I’ve always heard.”

“That is?”

Wally looked up into Sally’s eyes. “Stay the hell out of Brooklyn.”

Both smiled, laughed lightly, and then Sally was reaching down with her lips to kiss Wally’s pair freshly cleaned of the grime of torture.