CUT

Seconds.
15...14...13...12...

When Dominic punched me, I remember thinking it was odd that he hadn't hit me in the face; nine times out of ten, that's where a sucker punch lands.  But he had hit me in the side, just below my ribcage.  I never saw him coming, but looking back, I can imagine him swimming, shark-like between the tightly packed Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees fans who filled Kenmore Square that muggy July Sunday.

"Ouch," I said, more startled than hurt.  But it did hurt, like he'd had a roll of nickels in his little, balled-up fist.  I snapped my head, first to my left, where he'd been, and then to my right where I saw him swimming away, disappearing into a sea of red and blue and blue and white.

No one saw what happened.

I looked across the sidewalk at Snags.  He was trying to sell our Lowers that we were into for way too much money.  He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye while he tried to close the deal.  I gave him a nod and he looked at me strangely.  An endless stream of heads passed between us.  His eyes fixed on me.  Why was he ignoring the customers?  He looked...concerned.  I gave him what I thought was a look that said, "What's up?"  He started to make his way toward me.  His mouth was forming the shape of my name.  That's when I realized I couldn't hear anything except the sound of waves crashing on a shore in my head.  I felt woozy, like when I would get the "bed spins" after a night of power drinking at Ithaca.  I coughed.  It was a weak cough, but it hurt like hell and when my brain demanded more air, there wasn't any.  A young woman with the greenest eyes I had ever seen looked at me with horror as she covered her mouth with her hands.  I had a vague notion that someone very far away was screaming something extremely important.  And then the world was gone.   Not...punched...3...2...1.