The rope opened.
Ryder’s hand flew free.
Centrifugal force finally won. Ryder was flung away from the bull, tumbling across the arena dirt like a discard pile of laundry. He rolled once, twice, three times, before coming to rest against the sponsorship banners on the rail.
He lay on his back. The arena lights glared down at him—a thousand blinding eyes.
The dirt was in his mouth. It tasted of copper now.
Get up,the instinct whispered.Cowboys get up. You walk out. You don't let them carry you.
Ryder tried to sit up.
His body ignored him.
He looked down at his legs. His right leg was straight.
His left leg was... wrong.
It was twisted at an impossible angle mid-thigh, the toe of his boot pointing inward toward his groin. The denim of his jeans was tight, swelling rapidly.
A wave of nausea rolled over him, thick and oily.
The faces appeared above him. The bullfighters. The sports medicine team. Men in polos with worried eyes.
"Don't move, Ryder. Stay down."
"My leg," Ryder gasped. The air was coming back in shallow, stabbing sips. "My leg is gone."
"It's not gone, son. But it's broke bad."
Someone was cutting his jeans. The sound of scissors.Snip. Snip.
Then the pressure of hands. Checking the artery. Checking for a pulse in the foot.
"Pulse is weak," a voice said. "Femoral artery might be compromised. We need a board. Now!"
Ryder looked past them. He looked up at the stands.
The crowd was silent. Eighteen thousand people, and you could hear a pin drop. They were standing. Some had their hands over their mouths.
They weren't cheering the hero anymore. They were watching the wreckage.
I lost,Ryder thought. The realization was colder than the shock.I didn't cover. I didn't win.
He closed his eyes.
The pain was a rising tide, a black water that started at his thigh and washed up over his chest, his throat, his face.
He let it take him.
The last thing he heard was the siren of the ambulance, wailing like a banshee, coming to take him away from the glory and back to the one thing he had spent six years running from.
Silence.
IV. The White Room
Eight hundred miles north, the world didn't smell like blood and adrenaline. It smelled of isopropyl alcohol, latex, and the faint, dusty scent of forced-air heating.
