Silent

Starsky, alone with his thoughts, after the tag to “Shootout.”

Starsky knows he shouldn’t be surprised, but that doesn’t stop it from stinging any less.

The dull ache has begun, the one that signals that more pain is imminent. It would bother him less, mentally anyway, if it wasn’t his shooting arm. Starsky wonders why Hutch hasn’t resurrected the “How to Become Right-Handed” or whatever the hell it was called, book for him to read.

He desperately wants to talk to someone, but it’s late, he’s alone, and the words never come for him in times like these, his voice about as useless as his left arm, as if the bullet had lodged itself somewhere in his voice box instead of his shoulder.

It’s not cold, but he shivers, thinking of close calls.