I was sitting on the ottoman, dabbing at Tod’s palm with alcohol-soaked cotton balls then blowing on it to take the pain away when Tod said, “I thought you were making up a story when you said you’d been shot at. I thought it was another one of your stories.” “I don’t have any stories. All that shit I tell you actually happens.” Tod stared at me while he processed this. This was a new dimension in our relationship.
