Explore "Blood on my Jets" by Algis Budrys on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
I remember lying on my back for quite awhile before I wanted to open my eyes. I knew I wasn't on the street. The air was warm, and heated, and I was on a bed, or something like it. My leg was giving me hell where it had been burned, but I could feel the pressure of a bandage. I couldn't tell about my hand and face -- they felt as if something had been done about them, too, but I couldn't find out for sure without looking or touching them, and I didn't want to do that yet.
"Why the hell had Pat jumped me?" I couldn't figure it.