But not so fierce this time.

I covered myself as best I could, taking the blows on the top of my head or on the sides of my arms until there were almost no more because Christopher was nearly punched out but that was too little too late, my eyes were starting to roll back into my head, I had to do something unexpected, something vicious, so I fell against him, grabbing him in a bear hug while trying to get my brain working again, and now Christopher's punches were weakening, almost no problem at all—

—then my knees began to buckle.

Christopher, his chest heaving, pushed me back toward the trailer, threw a roundhouse that went wild, landing against my ear and spinning me along the length of the Airstream, off-balance more than hurt this time, and when I faced him again I saw he was going for another roundhouse but this one you could see coming from a mile away in slow-motion like something in a Peckinpah movie, and I knew I should have been able to duck it but my brain and body were not just then on speaking terms because the punch landed, landed hard, exploding against my jaw.  I fell back helpless as Christopher staggered toward me, slamming me in the ribs as best he could and there was no doubt in my mind that this wasn't him, he just hadn't been taking his medication—that's what I told myself, to make it seem like a noble thing I was doing here, getting my ass kicked and telling myself the reason I wasn't fighting back was because this wasn't really his fault—then I decided that was bullshit and swung out and caught him in his good jaw and he staggered back, took a breath, and struck me again.

Another punch to the mouth.

I countered with a sharp elbow-jab to the throat.

Another punch to the stomach.

I countered with a hard heel to the instep.

Another blow to the mouth.

Again my eyes started to roll back.

Christopher made his hand into a fist and his arm into a club and pulled back far and hard and I just had this sneaking suspicion that this next blow was going to ram my jawbone up into my brain—

—then I saw, of all things, Denise's face, the way she'd looked sitting in the truck stop and craning to get to the straw in the glass of orange juice, and I saw the fear and sadness and confusion there, and remembered how the rest of them had looked when the masks were off and decided there was no way in hell I was going to spend the next four hours repairing Christopher's makeup after this—

—and with everything I had remaining I drew back my right leg and snap-kicked out as hard as I could, catching Christopher, coming in, square between the legs.

Another punch to the mouth from him.

I slid down to the asphalt.

Christopher drew back for another punch but that's when his brain and body shouted Got something you need to know about and the pain between his legs registered and he groaned as his hand clutched his groin and the whole tight, skinny mass of him slammed down across from me, the two of us side by side not two feet apart, gasping, groaning, covered in sweat, covered in road grime, covered in blood.  We stared at each other, neither one able to move much, but that didn't stop Christopher, he struck out at my face again, catching only the edge of my jaw but it hurt enough, so I hit back, right in his eye, and we both wobbled, groaning, before he tried again, but there wasn't as much behind it this time, it was more of a slap, as was my response, and the whole thing quickly degenerated into two grown men sitting on the side of highway with all four hands flailing in the air and only occasionally connecting:  "Pat-a-cake, Pat-a-cake" on goofballs.  As if simultaneously realizing we were having what my mom would have called "a girlie fight", we suddenly stopped and looked at one another.

Then Christopher slapped me.  Once.  Very hard.

I slapped him right back.  Once.  Harder.

He turned around, facing the grassy incline off the emergency lane, crossing his arms over his chest.

I also turned around but did not cross my arms; it seemed the wrong aesthetic choice.

A minute passed.  Then another one.  The whole time we just sat there, softly groaning and touching our wounds and listening to the sounds of the morning traffic whizzing past.  I wasn't worried about anyone stopping.  We were invisible.

I leaned back my head against the trailer, gulped in some air, then turned to look at Christopher.

His eyes were closed and he was softly but steadily banging the back of his skull against the trailer.

"Well," I finally said.  "That was certainly… baroque."

"I don't like being laughed at."

"I wasn't laughing at you or your story, Christopher—but thanks for thinking that I would at this point."

"And I was supposed to know that how, exactly?  By the way—did I skip a groove or did you almost threaten to shoot me?"

"Almost, not quite."

"Ah."  He wiped some blood from his lower lips, looked at it, wiped it on his sleeve, then sniffed and said:  "May I have my gun back, please?"

"Well, since you said 'please'…"  I patted myself down, then realized what I was doing.  "I seem to have dropped it."

We both looked toward the front end of the bus where the gun lay next to one of the tires.

"Somebody really needs to go and get that thing before someone notices."

"Yeah," agreed Christopher.  "That would be… ouch!… that would be the thing a smart person would do."

So we sat there.  Vladimir and Estragon as they waited for Godot had nothing on us.

"What did you think you'd accomplish by shooting holes in the roof and floor?" asked Christopher.

"I was trying to get your attention."

"Ah."

I rubbed my jaw, wiped some of the muck from my face, then snorted back a big and very painful wad of blood and snot.  "You need to take your medicine, Christopher."

He pulled his legs back, groaning.  "I know."

"Is that what's in that pill bottle you keep taking out of your pocket and looking at?'

"Yes."

"I figured.  How long has it been since you last took a dose?"

"About four minutes—I took it while you were still having your little… Looney Tunes episode back there in the bus."

"How long had it been before that?"

He shrugged.  "Four, maybe five days."  He rubbed his eyes.  "The thing is, you have to keep a consistent level of the stuff in your system at all times, right?  If you stop, then what's in there only stays active for about seventy-two hours before it starts to fizzle out."  He sighed, then looked at me.  "I took a double dose—that's what I'm supposed to do if this happens and I get… get…"

"…bugfuck crazy?"

"…yeah.  I'm gonna be kind of tired for a few hours, so you'll have to drive."

"Oh, after that French Connection re-enactment, I'd be driving anyway."

He saw the look on my face.  "How bad was I?—wait, don't answer.  I already know.  Would it do any good to apologize?"

"How fast does that stuff work, anyway?  I can't go another round."

"If I need a double dose, I take the ones that dissolve in the mouth.  They're twice as strong as the regular pills.  They start to work within five to ten minutes, see?"  He held out his hands; they were trembling, but only very slightly.  After an explosion like his, most peoples' hands would be shaking like hell.  "In another hour or so, I'll be back to my old self, more or less… whatever that is."

"That might be nice."

"Famous last words."

"Could we not do this stumblebum routine again?"