It was midday on a bleak and hard highway when bullets cut the air — cool, thin, Wyoming air. The first came through the windshield, into his left eye, stopping millimeters from his brain. If there was pain, he doesn’t remember. It’s the sensation of a falling red curtain he talks about. He slumped right, across the seat. Fumbling, he clutched the radio, screaming to dispatchers, “I’ve been shot! I’ve been shot! Help! Help!” Then it felt like burning iron thrusting again and again through the flesh of his lower back.
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