When Dalton wakes he feels a familiar terror grip him.

The specter of imminent danger forces him awake with a gasp, arms flying up to guard his face as an out-of-focus body looms over him.

The figure immediately withdraws, taking the shape of a man holding his arms up loosely to show his empty palms.

“Woah, there…easy…easy. It’s alright, you’re safe.”

Dalton stares at Gino, wild-eyed and wary, head swiveling every which way to take in unfamiliar surroundings.

When nothing catastrophic happens and it becomes clear Gino doesn’t pose any immediate harm, his breathing slows and he releases his death-grip on the sofa’s armrests.

“You’ve only been out for a couple minutes. We're in my living room, a few blocks from the alley,” the man explains slowly.

His voice is resonant and reassuring, giving the impression that he’d make a killing reading bedtime stories to fussy babies or brokering a hostage situation.

Dalton sizes him up, unsure if it’s the calming presence or the memory of the man mowing down Joe and George like pins in a bowling alley with ease that solidifies a fact he cannot contest:

He needs this massive man.

The delight that he’s made a crucial discovery prompts Dalton to shout, “You’re perfect!” as he surges forward, closing the short distance between them to clasp/grasp Gino’s biceps. His eyes shine, pupils blown wide; frantic.

“Let me have a look at you,” Dalton continues, leaning back enough to better scan the detective from tip to toe. His hands are trembling slightly.

Gino stands, too stunned to pull away when Dalton’s eyes settle on his face again, eyes warm with awe and unsettling intensity.

The gaze feels too fond for a stranger, so he looks away, gently prizing Dalton’s hands off his arms.

Dalton either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, immediately circling Gino like a curious seal that’s taken a shine to a diver. He gestures excitedly as he speaks.

“Oh man, you shoulda seen yourself! The way you took out the first loser in one go? And-and then pummeled the second degenerate after that? It was like…like a ballet!”

Dalton pauses, eyes narrowing in thought. “No. No, wait, that’s not…yeah. Yeah! Like a violent, macho ballet! You’re like a-a-a wall of meat!” He crows, satisfied with the comparison.

“But you got brains even,” he adds in wonder, as if the notion of Gino possessing more than calibrated violence is a novel discovery.

“The full package! Just the man I need in my enterprise. What a find! Anyway, you’ve got the job. Say what’s your name, anyhow? I’m Dalton.”

Any doubts Gino possessed about the possibility of head trauma induced mania are obliterated.

Even if Dalton’s pupils didn’t look unevenly dilated he was talking nonsense and so frenzied that Gino, who’s been resisting the urge for some time, finally gives in and places his hands on Dalton’s shoulders to lower him onto the sofa.

“Sir, you’ve been in a traumatic incident. My name is Gino and I believe you may be experiencing delirium from head trauma. I need you to remain calm and stay still, while I-“

Dalton slaps his hand away, expression sour. “Don’t be stupid, I’m not delirious,” he snaps. “Now where was I? Oh yeah, I need you to-“

Daisy May, who’s been observing their unusual exchange finally takes the opportunity to paw affectionately at Dalton’s ankle. Dalton looks down, nose wrinkling at the sight of her.

“Eww. What’s this moist, ugly thing?”

Daisy May isn’t offended.

Instead, she immediately begins hacking up a dust bunny she’d ingested earlier.

“Augh!! Oh, gross!”

He draws his knees to his chest to put as much distance as possible from the contagion when he notices Gino standing by a telephone, the receiver to his ear.

“Hello, operator? Please connect me to the police station. Yes, I’d like to report a crime. Yes, that’s right. Please dispatch an officer and a doctor for a house call. No, no ambulance necessary. Yes. The address is-“

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

Whatever the operator says next is drowned out by the terrific crash of an expensive gramophone colliding with the base of the telephone, effectively ripping it out of the wall and sending a spray of wall plaster and plastic into the carpet.

Gino Rosetti has experienced several things in his distinguished career as a police detective which have led him to believe there is little that can catch him unawares. He is wrong.

The sudden destruction coupled with the sight of a wiry twenty something darting forward to scoop up the damaged telephone remains and making a beeline for the nearest window is enough to keep him frozen in stupefied wonder for a solid four seconds.

This delay guarantees that Gino is too late to prevent what happens next.

He catches up to Dalton in time to grab the young man by the wrist and draw him back only to witness him frisbee damaged device into the night sky and watches it plummet into the windshield of a parked Volkswagen below.

“That’s my landlady’s car,” Gino states blankly, grip loosening on Dalton’s wrist as he runs a hand through his hair in disbelief. A flicker of self-consciousness crosses Dalton’s face.

“I mean…she’s probably insured, right?”

Gino groans.

“Right?”

Before he can answer, Dalton falters, eyes screwing shut and face going pale. His grip on the windowsill tightens as he sinks to the floor, head hanging. Drops of fresh blood drip onto the wood floor. His wound’s reopened.

“Woahhh…ev…everything’s getting spinny,” Dalton says quietly, head resting on one knee. Gino feels a flash of anger.

“Small wonder! You keep losing blood and are likely concussed. We need to get you to a hospital. Now.” His tone implies there’s no room for argument.

“No. No hospital. You do it. First aid. I’m…” He trails off as a wave of nausea breaks over him.

The puddle of red beneath him widens.

“I just need to sleep it off,” Dalton insists weakly.

Gino’s heard stories of men who’ve looked less battered refusing to see a doctor after a bad fall. Men who have walked away from an automobile accident without so much as a scratch on.

Cases where such men have gone to bed without worry or pain only to bleed out internally during the night; dead as doornails by daylight.

Gino won’t let that happen to Dalton.

He sighs, dropping to his knees alongside Dalton.

“I’m sorry sir, but this is for your own good…you’re not in your right mind.”

So saying, Gino scoops the injured man into his arms easily. He’s so light. Then, as carefully as he can manage, he settles the thin body over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.

Once the initial shock wears off, Dalton squawks and thrashes. “He-hey! Put me down! Put me down this instant, you overgrown Goliath!”

That’s a new one.

Gino tries to keep the exasperation out of his voice, vying for as much detached professionalism as possible. “Wish I could. Truly. Please don’t struggle. It will aggravate your injuries.”

“Oh yeah? Aggravate this!”

From her front row seat on the couch, Daisy May barks as her owner takes a punishing blow to the face.

Disoriented, the detective stumbles back a few steps, hold loosening enough for Dalton to wiggle free and slam onto the ground. He’s on his feet in an instant and running towards the exit.

Gino blinks away tears as a warm ribbon of blood streams down his nose.

The stranger he’s risked his neck to save and brought into his home just kneed him in the face at full strength without reservation. What is the world coming to?

Pinching the bridge of his nose to staunch the bleeding, Gino turns towards the front door expecting to find it flung open. It’s still shut.

A cool breeze wafts into the room behind him and a cursory glance reveals an unprecedented sight:

The red-haired human hurricane is awkwardly shimmying out a window leading onto the fire escape. Gino stares quietly, wondering if he should bother being surprised by anything at this point.

After twenty seconds of struggling, Dalton manages to plant both feet on the metal platform outside.

He shivers, sensing the intangible weight of being watched and lifts his gaze to the full length window where Gino stands, observing wordlessly. They’re less than six feet apart.

Dalton blinks.

What?

Gino blinks.

Nothing.

Dalton returns his attention to executing the slowest escape the detective has ever seen. He’s just out of sight when a pained cry marks the end of his progress.

Gino rushes outside, fearing the worst, but only finds Dalton doubled over in pain, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other clutching the stairwell’s metal railing. Gino begins descending the steps towards him.

“Ah…” He begins, uncertainly. “Are you-“

“Don’t.”

The detective freezes, mid-step.

“Don’t you dare come closer or I’ll rip your throat out,” Dalton grits out, head swiveling to meet Gino’s gaze. Dalton's eyes are dark, mouth curling into an ugly snarl: all teeth, all bite.

Gino has seen this expression before. He’s seen it in the desperate, hunted eyes of criminals driven into a corner; dangerous with desperation—ready to claw out fistfuls of flesh to stay free one more second.

But the young man glowering at him isn’t a criminal. He’s not even fully grown, not really. Gino feels a surge of shame. His approach has been wrong all evening.

So, the detective lowers his hands, letting them hang limply at his sides. Dalton watches warily as Gino reverses slowly up the stairs and sits down, hands clasped together, prayer-like, elbows resting on his knees.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Please, don’t run, You’re safe. I...“

Clouds drift across the moon’s face, masking them both in darkness. The wind curls around them, sending shivers up their spines. Then the milky light returns to reveal Dalton watching Gino intently.

“I won’t call the police. Or hospital. You’re free to go, but…you’re injured. And it’s late.”

Dalton scowls, staring down at the sidewalk below. Gino knows whatever he says next will determine whether he stays or flees.

“I can treat your wounds. If you’ll allow me.”

No response.

“…Please.”

Dalton keeps staring down the street below them.

“Not here. My place.”

Gino holds back a smile.

“Alright. You’re in charge,” he reassures. Dalton sniffs, tilting his chin up like a young emperor considering a servant.

“That’s right. And don’t you forget it.”