I'd seen many similar holes in my internship time at one of Seattle's trauma centers. It was a gunshot wound. Somebody had shot me."Fuck me," I muttered, feeling the burning intensify. I looked frantically around the truck, searching for the gunman, but saw nothing but hills and dirt and pine trees and snow. Who the hell had shot me? Why had they done it? What had I ever done to deserve this?My survival instinct kicked in, bringing up two points at once. First of all, whomever had done this was probably still around somewhere. I needed to get the hell out of here, quickly. Second, I'd been shot in the chest, right of the sternum. People died from this sort of wound all the time. The right lung was under there. The heart wasn't directly under there but it was close and bullets rarely traveled in a straight line once they entered the body. There were also large, major arteries and veins under there, vessels that were just entering or leaving the heart itself. The aorta, the superior. She reached up and put a finger against his lips. He would not have understood her law of survival. She must not care, she could not care. She must give pleasure to men, but never receive pleasure, for receiving, responding, touched her soul. She could not survive with her soul in his embrace. Doc held her, firmly, softly, and watched as slow tears fell from the corner of her eyes, down her face onto his chest. He listened to the sounds of Olongapo outside the window of her room. They went to the Naval Hospital on base, mostly for Doc to get some more money. They swam on the beach, had lunch at the Enlisted Men’s Club. They left the base and fought their way over the bridge between the base and Olongapo City. They fought their way through the money changers, the pitch men, the vendors selling ?monkey on a stick.? Doc did not toss a peso to the children diving for coins in ?shit river.? They walked down the main street to its end. They turned.
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