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I hadn't been shot at in a while, and no one had hit me in the head for a whole month or two. It was kind of a record, and I was starting to feel special.

Brett and I were upstairs in our little rented house, lying in bed, breathing hard, having just arrived at the finish line of a slow, sweet race that at times can seem like a competitive sport, but when played right, even when you're the last to arrive, can make you feel like a winner.

In that moment, life was good.

Brett sat up and fluffed her pillow behind her back and pushed her long bloodred hair to the side with one hand, shoved her chest forward in a way that made me feel mighty lucky, said, "I haven't had that much fun since I pistol-whipped a redheaded midget."

"You don't know how romantic that makes me feel," I said. "I think Little Hap just went looking for a place to hide."

"I thought he just came out of hiding," she said, and winked at me.

Thing was, she actually had pistol-whipped a midget. I was there. She was trying to find her daughter and save her life, but still, it was ugly, and I was a party to it. I will say this, however, in favor of the midget: he took his beating with stoic pride and refused to take it while wearing his cowboy hat, an expensive Stetson. He wanted it right on the skull and that's where he got it.

"You know, I think they prefer being called dwarf instead of midget, or Little People," I said.

"No kidding. I don't know about the rest of them, but the one I worked over, I just call him Pistol-Whipped."

"Do you ever feel bad about it?"

"Nope."

"He died, you know.&q...