The light shone on his back and lit the many scars spread across his skin. A few years before he’d found me in Jack’s troller, he’d been carrying a young girl to a helicopter when someone shot him in the back. The buckshot pellets produced fourteen holes, a collapsed lung, the loss of about half his blood, and six hours of surgery. The years since had produced several other holes and one long scar under his right rib cage where he’d encountered a knife in close quarters. His back was a road map of rescue.
