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"Icebox. Refrigerator." Oh."Apparently she'd held the thought until we were both sitting at the table, me just to keep her company, because she waited...until then to ask me. "Why do you call it an icebox?"I laughed. "Well, that's what they used to be, a long time ago—an insulated box you kept cold with blocks of ice that were delivered two or three times a week. Before they had electric ones and renamed them." You're not old enough to remember that, for heaven's sake." No," I admitted. "But my. Falling to the ground, I let go of herand pressed a hand to the bullet wound on my side, throwing her as far asI could towards the safety of the wall, I turned to draw as muchattention to me as I could. It worked, because I was kicked again andfell backwards to the ground. The sensations were crystal clear, pain andcold, concentrating on breathing, I lay as still as I could, to make thesniper think that I was dead, hang in there, keep breathing, stay strong,those were the words going through. More

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