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his mother and the condition on which she had let him go to the police academy.
    Elsie Loach was both inconsolable about her son’s near disaster, imagining the inches in either direction that would have left him dead or paralyzed, and triumphant that she’d saved his life. She wanted him to resign immediately. No one’s son should be a police officer! They should come from the ranks of orphans and middle-aged men whose mothers have passed on. He practically lived at the station, like a firefighter, like a lighthouse keeper, like a monk. She’d brought the braided rug from his room at home and a reading lamp for his bedside, which necessitated her acquiring and refinishing a solid maple night table from the rummage sale at Saint Xavier’s along with a bureau scarf that wasn’t frilly or stained.
    Strangers assumed that she was thrilled to have Joey in uniform; exhilarated by the sight of him behind the wheel of his cruiser, pressed and clean-shaven, but she wasn’t. She turned off the news when she saw reports of police officers shot, killed, sued, eulogized. And now it had happened. A crazy man had shot Joey at close range as he ambled in his good-natured fashion up to the half-open window of—as best as he could remember—a Ford pickup with Massachusetts plates. They were out there—nuts and murderers; sociopaths who thought it was better to kill someone’s son than get a ticket. Marilee and her husband had safe jobs—day-care teacher at a state building with a metal detector and dairy manager at Foodland.
    Worst of all, the murderer was at large. “He’s gone,” Joey had promised. “Even the stupidest cop killer would get out of town and not look back.”
    â€œMaybe he wasn’t just passing through. Maybe this was his destination. Maybe he was out to get you.”
    â€œI pulled him over! He shot me because he must’ve had drugs in the car or it was stolen, or there was a body in the trunk.”
    â€œPromise me you’ll let the state police handle this. Let someone else go looking for him.”
    â€œI’m not going looking for him, okay?”
    â€œWill you spend tonight at home?”
    He shook his head. She walked from the foot of his bed to one side. “Let me see.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI want to see what he did to you.”
    Joey pulled the thin cotton blanket up to his shoulders. “It’s black-and-blue. They told me to expect a few more shades before I’m done. But forget it. I’m not showing you.”
    â€œIs it very painful?”
    â€œNo,” he lied.
    She narrowed her eyes. “They said on television it was like getting beat up by a heavyweight boxer.”
    â€œNah,” said Joey. “Bantamweight, maybe.”
    She opened the flat, hinged carton that held his new bullet-proof vest, picked it up by its shoulders, held it against her own chest, and said, “It seems so flimsy.”
    â€œThat’s the point—lighter; new and improved.”
    â€œBut strong enough to stop the bullets?”
    â€œDefinitely. More than ever. You’re worrying about nothing. Lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice.”
    â€œThat’s not true! If you’re chief of police, you’re a lightning rod.”
    â€œThis is King George, Ma. This was a bad break, but it’s not going to happen again.”
    â€œWhat if he’s never caught? How do I get to sleep at night knowing he’s out there?”
    â€œYou’ll sleep fine. So will I. In fact I’ve got a prescription for sleeping pills. I’ll give you one.” He folded the blanket to his waist. “Now I’m getting out of bed and I’m getting dressed, so you may want to leave.”
    â€œI’ll wait in the hall. I want to speak to the nurses anyway.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œI want someone besides you to tell me that the doctor discharged you.”
    Joey picked