I am in Tucson for the last two weeks and four more; it is December cold. I am selling my townhouse during a forced six week vacation from a bullet wound. I was interviewing a battered wife for a restraining order and a future divorce action. The girl was eighteen and the bruises sullying her pretty face did not dim the bright blue eyes. She was pregnant, seven months, and she was afraid of her husband’s drug-induced paranoia and jealousy. Her eyes would have told me, but I was focused on the words; and I didn’t see. The first shot entered the cabinet behind her head; I pulled the girl to me. The next shot took me through the ribs on the right side of my body, barely nicking the lung. The girl rushed at the man and grabbed the gun out of his hands. He cried, Mary, I’m sorry. She said, Get out of here, Judah. Get out now before I kill you. She pushed him out with the barrel. She put a pillow under my head and said, This is what I get for marrying someone so bone stupid. It is the last thing I remember before I awake in the hospital. My Becky has problems separating the anger and fear; it was my second bullet in three months; a week later she banishes me to Tucson, my ex-home away from home.