"I suppose I didn't. My professional advice is that you go to the hospital the minute you reach Tel Aviv, but I'm not going to ask if you will. The answer might make me feel guiltier than I already do. How are you feeling right now?"

"Much better already."

"You're a terrible liar, you know that? Which makes me feel better because now I'm sure you'll keep your word and not repeat what I told you. Before you go..." He reached into the back seat and got his briefcase. He produced two squat bottles of pills. "This one's for the fever. Take three a day until it breaks. This is for the pain. Don't exceed four a day. Take the pills with food, okay?"

I put the medicine in my coat pocket. I thanked him again.

"Take it easy, Mr. Lapid. Rest. Don't exert yourself. And stay out of trouble, okay?"

Five seconds after I exited Dr. Aboulker's car, the rain turned into a deluge. By the time I made it into the station, my hair was matted, and water had infiltrated my clothes, freezing my skin. My ribs, especially where Kulaski had punched me, were screaming with agony.

Once on the bus, I settled into the backseat and struggled to find a comfortable way to position my body. I didn't find one. However I shifted, a different part of my battered anatomy ignited with pain.

I was also cold beyond reason. I shook, trembled; my teeth chattered. I wrapped my arms around myself, but it did no good. It was as though my body had stopped producing heat.

The other travelers looked at me once and then avoided eye contact. I looked like trouble, and they wanted to steer clear of it.

The bus ride was an ordeal. The road was rife with bumps and potholes, and I felt every single one of them in my battered and broken bones. I tried sleeping, but every little uneven patch of tarmac jolted me back to dismal wakefulness. The rain kept up most of the way, so the ride was slow and long.

The sky was gray in Tel Aviv, but at least it was dry. The air was cold and still, like a pent-up breath. I staggered out of the bus station and tried hailing a taxi. A couple veered closer, but when the driver got a look at my face, he spun the wheel and tore off. When the third one came, I was smarter. I bent my head and pretended to scratch my forehead, obscuring my face. When I slid into the backseat and the driver saw me in all my bruised glory, he gulped, but it was too late to drive off. The enemy was inside the gates.

I alleviated his anxiety by showering him with gifts; in this case, a few coins from my wallet. He drove me to Hamaccabi Street and was so relieved that I hadn't passed out or worse in his taxi that he bade me a cheerful goodbye and expressed his heartfelt hope that I would feel better soon. I didn't reply. I had too little energy. With my bag in one hand, I trudged into the building and cursed myself for living on the third floor. The climb up the stairs was a repeat of the one earlier that day in Jerusalem, only worse. The pain in my chest had increased, and I was also exhausted.

I wobbled up the first flight, stumbled up the second, fumbled with my keys, nearly dropped them, missed the keyhole several times, and finally managed to get the door open.

Inside, dizzy with pain, fever, and fatigue, I dropped the bag by the door, tottered toward my bed, plopped onto it, and fell on my back without removing my coat or shoes. The only thing I did before drowning in unconsciousness was to take out the gun. I fell asleep with it in my hand.

I slipped in and out of consciousness for eighteen hours. I had outlandish dreams, feverish delusions. I was visited by apparitions of the dead. I wept; I beseeched them for forgiveness; I said I longed to join them. I might have meant it, too. I'm not sure.

I shivered, burned, sweated profusely, then froze as the sweat evaporated inside my clothes, turning them damp. I hurt. The pain came in bright flashes, in powerful and clawing waves. Even in the best moments, it never went away entirely. It was a constant companion, always present, like a noise that rises and falls but is never silent.

I forgot about the medicine. My head pounded and swam, even lying down. It was impossible to form coherent thoughts. My brain was jumbled, messy, like a room after an earthquake.

My nose throbbed. It felt too big for my face—a bloated, alien, monstrous thing. I was nauseated, without appetite, submerged in a swamp of agony, illness, disorientation, and bleak imaginings.

Two things pulled me from the depths of semiconsciousness and back to the real world. The first was a series of firm knocks on my door—initially, they filled me with panic; I was sure it was Kulaski—and a voice calling from the other side: "Adam! Are you there, Adam?" The second was a painful pressure in my lower abdomen, coupled with the urgent need to pee. "Just a minute," I rasped and hurried to the bathroom, arriving just in time to avert an awkward disaster.

More blood in my urine. I flushed it down as one attempts to bury a terrible memory.

I opened the door. It was Greta. A look of horror came over her face, and her hand flew to her mouth.

"Adam, dear God, what happened?"

"Hello, Greta. I had a little trouble."

"Not so little, I think. Can I come in?"

I moved aside, and she entered the apartment. Her nose wrinkled. "We need some air in here." She opened a window, looked at my bed, and asked, "Were you expecting a burglar?"

She had seen the gun. In my rush to the bathroom, I had left it on the sheet.

"A policeman, actually."

Her eyebrows shot up. "I think you'd better tell me everything, Adam."

I massaged my pounding temples. "It's a long story. What are you doing here, Greta?"

"I was worried about you. You were distraught when you stormed out the other day, and then I didn't see you for a few days. I came over here yesterday and the day before, but you didn't answer your door."

"I'm surprised you cared enough to make the effort."

She looked insulted. "Why wouldn't I?"

"You made it clear what you thought of what I did in Jerusalem. Like Ben-Gurion said on the radio, I'm one of the terrorists who tried to topple Israeli democracy."

Greta shook her head, an expression of sadness on her face. "Oh, Adam. You're so hard on yourself sometimes, you think the rest of the world has to be the same way. Well, I'm not. If I'm disappointed in you for something you did, it doesn't mean I've stopped caring about you." She set her bag on my dining table, stepped forward, and engulfed me in her embrace, my chest mashed against her large bosom, my head in the crook of her neck. It was wonderful, like returning home after a cold, arduous journey, and tears sprang to my eyes. But then Greta squeezed me a little too strongly, and I groaned and pulled away.

"What is it?" she asked.

"My ribs." I sat down heavily on one of the two chairs in my apartment, bending my head, struggling to regain my breath.

"What's wrong with them?"

"They're sore."

"Quite a bit more than sore, I'd say. And your nose, your face." She touched my cheek and then my forehead, just like my mother used to do when I was a boy. "You're a furnace, Adam. You need to go to the hospital right away."

"No hospital."

"This is no time for stubborn manliness. You're obviously very ill."

"No hospital, Greta."

"Why not?"

I fixed my eyes on hers. "You can't have a gun handy in a hospital."

That stopped her cold. She looked at the gun, then back at me. I thought she'd ask me again to tell her what happened, but she had other priorities. "If you refuse to go to the hospital, I'll get a doctor to come here."

"No."

"You can keep the gun in your pocket until he leaves."

"He may decide I have to be hospitalized. I can't risk that."

"That means you're in really bad shape. Even worse than what shows."

I thought about the blood in my urine, the busted ribs Kulaski had punched, the high fever, my bone-deep exhaustion. Greta was right. I was in a terrible state. But what scared me more than my health was the chance, however slim, that Kulaski would decide that the pain he'd inflicted on me and my banishment from Jerusalem weren't enough, that he needed to pay me another visit. Even here in Tel Aviv, he terrified me. He'd become a monster, a demon that might appear at any time, any place. And the worst thing that I could imagine was being helpless if he came after me, like I'd been in Jerusalem. That was a scenario I simply couldn't tolerate. I needed to be armed. I had to be able to fight.