He doesn't remember being strapped down on the gurney and rushed to OR. The last thing he remembers is stumbling on the rain-slick pavement a block before the hospital entrance and falling to his knees. Tony tried to urge him to his feet, but he didn't have the strength. Strange, how the wounds barely ached until Tony’s brother pointed out the blood staining the Escalade's seats.

"Tony, man, I don't think I can make it." His head was swimming, a pulsing red darkness spreading behind his eyes. He leaned over the gutter and vomited a mixture of club soda, bile and blood. Someone put their arms around him and he sagged against them in relief, letting his vision slide out of focus, surrendering to the quiet hum of sleep.

He doesn't remember Tony's brother carrying him into the ER, cradled in his arms like a child, his face slick with blood and tears. Or the two-hour surgery to examine his internal organs for damage and stitch up the seven-inch stab wounds that littered his back and face. The next thing he remembers after passing out in the street is waking up in ICU, his ribs wrapped in bandages, a growing numbness in the right side of his face. He asked the doctor over and over again if he was going to die.

///

Inglewood was nothing like Oakland. The air was grey with smog and hot enough to burn his throat in the summer. The beaches were sunny, but when he looked across the water he didn't see the familiar silhouettes of the Golden Gate Bridge and Coit Tower.