How on earth Johnny survived head injury like that baffles you, yet he did. He's propped up in his hospital bed, mohawk partially covered by head bandages, breathing a little laboured. But alive.

One of his eyes peels open when you enter the room and his expression softens. "You made it," he croaks, his voice hoarse from sleep and morphine. "Think the bullet'll make me go doolally?" He chuckles, his smile weak but genuine, his hand moving lethargically to brush his fingertips against yours.