“That rock he threw did more than save your ass,” Sondra said. “It ripped his arm to shreds. I can’t find a brachial pulse and his fingers are...cold to the touch. His pupils are dilated and he’s suffering from aphasia. If I don’t get him under the knife in the next few minutes ... he’s going to lose the arm at the very least. He might not survive.”“I’m OK,” I protested. At least my brain told me that’s what I said. It sounded a lot different to my ears.“I’m not too banged up to put you on that. “Problem?” I asked, “No problem. Not yet, anyway. Let’s have a quick chat.”He glanced inside then stepped back. I indicated a patio table and pulled out a chair for him. “Sit. This won’t take long; then you can go back to what you were doing.”Reluctantly, he sat. “It’s your home, and I am your guest,” he said as he emptied what was left of his wine, the French accent reappearing.“Où en France As-tu grandi?” I suddenly asked him where in France he grew up. He stared at me. I let fly more French. More

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