“Sir, I cain’t let yuh back here,” Kaspar said. He was pressing a button that he must have been told to press if anything happened outside his competence zone. I staggered forward to the big deep fryer, pulled off my hat, and set it down on the control panel. The unit had four wide bins, one with a big drift of French fries tanning under a red lamp, two others holding big empty frying cages with detachable handles, and one covered with a square lid with a big knob in the center. I lifted it off. It was full of about six inches of polyunsaturated vegetable oil that I figured would be around three hundred and fifty degrees. A Panthalassa-size ocean of pain.

The deal about cautery is that even though it’s too tricky to recommend generally, it’s always been effective. If you just stick a hot poker in an arrow wound like in a John Wayne western, all you’ll do is burn away the healthy skin from around the hole and make things worse. It’s more something you use for interior wounds, on organs like the liver that can’t be stitched. Or you use liquids, like in the American Civil War, they used hot tar. Obviously there are better options now, and the instruments that do still come in military field medical packs are a lot more advanced. Still, even these days, in Pakistan, for instance, a lot of Marines, and maybe most of them, carry about ten sets of strike-anywhere matches in their Bug Out Bags, duct-taped together in bunches of ten and twenty. And if the worst case comes to pass in the absence of a medic, they light up a bundle, stuff it into the wound-even a bullet entrance or exit-and, if they’re still conscious after that much pain, pull it out when the heat’s gone. This has saved a lot of lives by controlling bleeding when the medics were a long way off, or when, like I did, one had a reason not to go to the hospital.

Okay. Entering the World of Pain. It’s always just an angstrom away, on the other side of the Carrollian looking-glass.

“Uh, I’m sorry,” Kaspar said, “we’re not allowed to let cus’mers behin’ the cou’er, um, even for emer’e’cies.”

“Just give me a second,” I said. I screwed the straw as far as I could up into my right nostril. “Don’t upset yourself.”

“Sir? Sorry, I cain’t let yuh do that.”

“Did you get nine-one-one?” I asked. I took a deep breath, bent down, and snorted a blast of hot oil up into my sinuses. It was like a Grucci chrysanthemum shell went off in my head, those same silver brocades and the water-drum boom from the report component, while I, or rather not so much I but my more basic selves, my amphibian and insect brains and the flatworm brain way down in the gut, were all sure that that I was dead. People think stubbing a toe or breaking an arm or getting zapped by a stun gun is painful, but it’s not in the same league, game, arena, or continent. You stay sane through those things. With this, for some time it wasn’t me there at all, just a mad snarling vicious thing, and then when it was me again, there wasn’t room for any thought other than the surprise that I was alive. At some point I noticed I was still screaming, and after I’d made myself stop I noticed I was writhing around on the floor. Some of the oil had dripped back into my throat and I thought my throat would swell up so that I couldn’t breathe. I should order a milkshake, I thought. Later.

“Uh, sorry, sir, but I can’t let you back here. There’s a public telephone by the restroom.” Kaspar had his hand on my shoulder. I took it and used it to pull myself up. I looked at him. My vision must have tunneled in because I had to move my head to see his name tag, which said his real name was Herb.

“Herb, I appreciate your concern,” I rasped. My voice sounded like Karl Malden playing Satan. “And I know you have to follow proper management procedure to run this restaurant efficiently.”

Okay, next item. Head wound. I eased toward the back of the kitchen. The grill. “But if you get in my way, as soon as my team of security professionals get here, and that’ll be in about two minutes, they’ll torture you and your co-worker to death with a Makita cordless circular sander. After that they’ll take your IDs and look up your families and kill them, too, if they live anywhere in the area.” I got a quarter-inch of paper napkins out of a dispenser and folded it into a mitt in my right hand. “So, Herb, seriously, please, make this easy for me. My way right away. Right?”

I stood in front of the flame broiler. There were two big iron grates, with patties charring on the right one. The left one didn’t look hot, so I just whisked the burgers away and lifted up on the iron grate. Too heavy. Takes two hands to handle. I folded a second paper mitt, crouched, and pushed up. The grate rose up. I stood up and poked through the layer of volcanic rocks that covered the heating elements. The bigger the better. I picked up the largest lava stone I could find in my left hand. The napkins smoked but didn’t catch fire. I pressed the smoother side of the rock into the wound in my forehead. This was a different order of pain, colder, more like diving into liquid nitrogen. It wasn’t easier to deal with, though. My body knew it had to get away, so much so that I thought it would split into two pieces like it was tied to two cars going in different directions. I could hear my head sizzling like Canadian bacon. I screamed again, I think even louder.

“Sir? Are you hurt?”

No, I thought. I’m fine, can’t you tell? I turned. I could only see a little bit of him, just his face and hat, like I was looking through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. I pushed past him and staggered to the exit door on the side with the drive-thru window. There was gray stuff around him and a smell that shouldn’t be there. Oh, hair, I thought. Yes. The front section of my hair, short as it was, was on fire. Evidently I’d spattered oil on it and the rock had ignited it. No problem. I patted it and it went out, I think. The pain rose again and I screamed again. Whoa. Okay. It’s out of my system. Damn, that was a whopper freakout. I took a quick look back over the counter at the eating area, expecting to see Grgur walk in the front door. He wasn’t there. Neither were any other new visitors. ES must be having problems, I thought. Well, don’t fuck a gift horse in the mouth, et cetera. Okay. As I’d learned from No Way back in the day, drive-throughs are the fugitive’s best friend. Let’s go car shopping.

Side door. EXIT. Right.

Step, step Whoa. Who are you?

A dude-who I guessed was the Manager on Duty, finally alerted by the panic button-had strode in from somewhere in the back and was blocking my exit. He was big, blond, about thirty, and, as seemed to be de rigueur, somewhat overweight. I noticed I still had the lava rock in my left hand. He said something about how I had to stay where I was and wait for the police.

“Thank you, sir,” I said, keeping my eyes on his eyes. I pressed the rock into his paunch. It sizzled. He emitted a high, shrill scream, almost louder than the ones I’d just produced myself, and his body recoiled, although, I guess reflexively, his right arm threw a sort of halfhearted haymaker punch. I just crouched under it-it wasn’t coming fast enough for me to claim that I ducked-and I edged around him. There was a three-AA flashlight hanging in its own OSHA-mandated spot next to the first-aid kit, and I took it as I left the food prep area. Damn, if I’d known pain like this existed I would have crawled back into the womb and lived there for the next eighty years. Although it had made me forget about the cold.

“Sir, excuse me?” Herb asked somewhere behind me. I looked around. My vision seemed to have opened out a bit, and I could see that he was still back at the grill station.

“You’ve been great, Herb,” I said. I went out. The patrons looked up to watch me leave, but only one or two of them stopped chewing.

The car at the head of the drive-thru line-a first-generation Equinox in Navajo Nectarine-had its window down, I guessed waiting for the rest of its order, and I edged forward to where I could see the driver.