Fellow cops who had been shot told Clement it was like being punched by a ball of iron. That was all Clement had as a comparison for being shot by an arrow. And it did feel like a punch but more by a long iron finger than a ball. For the first few strides he was able to power on, aware that some foreign object was stuck inside him, the shaft and tail still protruding from his side, under his right arm near his ribcage he guessed, but no real impediment. But then the rhythm in his stride went wrong like a toddler trying to negotiate a downward slope for the first time, and he was stumbling, unable to straighten. He fell into the water without grace, this was no celebratory touchdown but the humiliation of a fall into muck. He was aware he wasn’t breathing so well, he started to feel faint and wondered if he was dying. Because of the arrow he lay slightly on his left, gasping, the water getting colder around him, still splashing with heavy droplets, the gods pissing on him. The leaves above shuffled like the beaters of a cheer squad, he indulged himself with a vision of himself as fallen hero, a generic tombstone and Phoebe and Marilyn sad-eyed in black. He was losing it now, the thought, all thought, it was a fog, he was nothing and nowhere.