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down to the tip of her nose. The brown freckles sprinkled beneath her eyes and on her cheeks stood out against her extremely light complexion.
    â€œI was just telling Wesley just how lucky he is.” Dr. Murphy stood beside my bed, placed his hands inside the pockets of his white lab coat and looked directly at me. “The bullet went straight through your shoulder. The projectile severed your clavicle bone and exited through your back. The bullet could’ve easily deviated and punctured a lung or broken a rib.”
    â€œI’ve been shot?” I asked for clarification.
    â€œYes, you have. It may take a little more time for everything to come back to you,” explained Dr. Murphy.“Certain types of trauma can cause a repression of short-term memory. You also suffered a concussion when your head slammed against the concrete. The force of the impact to the brain may cause blurred vision, vomiting and sometimes the loss of your short-term memory.”
    â€œHe is going to remember everything, isn’t he? Charges are going to have to be filed,” my dad interrupted Dr. Murphy.
    â€œIt’s hard to tell. Sometimes in cases like this a person can be told what occurred, but they can’t remember the incident. In other cases, patients have temporary memory loss and experience flashbacks.”
    â€œIs this similar to what soldiers go through?” my dad asked.
    â€œThat’s called post-traumatic stress disorder and happens when there is prolonged exposure to mental or emotional events. That’s a little more severe. Overall, I believe that Wesley will recover physically and go on with his life. This particular episode may remain repressed or he could have full recall. Either way, I’ll provide you with information to help him through that part of his recovery.”
    â€œOh, thank You, Jesus,” my grandmother blurted out as if a great anchor of uncertainty had been lifted from her heart.
    â€œI had his name added to the prayer list at our church. There are a lot of good people pulling for him to make a full recovery,” my grandmother said loudly and clasped her hands. “Praise God,” she squealed. A smile crossed my face as I studied her. Everyone at my grandmother’s churchwas familiar with her distinguished raspy voice. Nearly every Sunday she would do her fair share of shouting and testifying, yet it was still strong enough to command attention whenever she spoke. At that very moment there was a rapid succession of knocks at the door.
    Two uniformed officers entered the room. “Hello, folks. I’m Officer Miles and this is my partner, Officer Davis. I was wondering if we could speak to Wesley for a moment. We need to ask him some questions.”
    â€œSure. He just woke up not long ago and things are still a little fuzzy. He appears to be experiencing some memory loss,” Dr. Murphy explained.
    â€œDo you remember what happened?” asked my dad as he poured more water into my cup.
    â€œI just can’t concentrate right now,” I whispered as I vainly tried to recall the incident.
    â€œCan you tell me the last thing you remember?” asked Officer Miles as he pulled out a writing pad.
    I shrugged my shoulders. “I just remember waking up in this room,” I answered honestly.
    â€œDo you remember what you were doing yesterday?” asked Officer Miles. I paused and tried to remember, but I got nothing.
    â€œNo,” I answered as I continued to search my mind for answers or clues.
    â€œWe should talk to the girl,” Officer Davis suggested to his partner. “If he can’t remember, it’s going to be difficult to get a conviction.”
    â€œNow hang on a minute. Don’t give up on him. Give him a little more time to recover. He’ll remember.” Mydad had gotten upset. “I don’t want you guys to give up because of this.”
    â€œWe’ll talk to the girl and then we’ll