A taste of poison is deadly. A taste of me is a whole lot worse.
She found me on the side of the road.
I would’ve bled to death if it wasn’t for her.
The bastards who tried to kill me had come real damn close.
But she picked me up, carried me home, nursed me back to health.
How could she miss it? How didn’t she see?
I’m a walking virus, a natural disaster.
Death and violence follow me like a second shadow.
The right thing to do would have been to leave me where I was.
To let me die a dog’s death — hell, I probably deserved it.
She didn’t, though, and it’s too late for regret.
Already, my past has come roaring back with a vengeance.
We don’t have much time left.