“Yeah, sender,” he continued. “Yer bin talkin’ wi’out speakin’, ain’t yer? Yer bin sendin’, an’ ya can do it wi’ pitchers too. Yer wounded inside y’ head, and mebbe I can hep ya.”

He emerged from the deep shadows into the dim moonlight. I was suddenly flooded with images of his own hard life on the rails, the beatings that he had suffered. He knew what my life was like.

“You’re a sender too,” I said quietly.

Yes I am. “Now, le’s look at this wound of yers.”

I showed him the wound. He was clearly shocked by the extent of the injury, and couldn’t hide it. Other intentions that he would have preferred remain hidden peeked through, and I had from him the images of the rape that he intended to commit. My luck had evaporated.

Relax, he sent, let me heal you. Relax. Relax.

I dumped all of the infection that I could find into his mind, ripping my wound wider to find enough. It was sufficient. He collapsed and was still.

I stripped him of his coat. Then I ran, keeping to shadows where I could.