Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (94 page)

One morning, in the elevator going down, I couldn’t help staring at a handsome little boy of about nine or ten. He was in a wheelchair with bloody, bandaged stumps where his legs used to be. Gaunt and sad, he wore a ball cap covering his bald head.

In seconds, I had flashed back to all the girls and all the places I’d seen, how the world had been mine. I had my doubts that this poor little guy would ever get his driver’s licence or make love to a first girlfriend. The ride was only a few floors and I pulled my ball cap down over my face to hide my tears. The courage that flickered in his brooding eyes made me feel ashamed that I ever felt sorry for myself. It woke something up inside me.

After that elevator ride with that child, I prayed for my life. I slowly came back, one heart beat at a time. Time to be the hero I always pretended to be.

Eleven months later I was in Australia.

It was May 20, 2003, and the fourth anniversary of Owen’s death was a few days away. I was glad to get the hell out of Calgary because May was such a depressing month for me. It’d been a long year.

Not to mention Calgary’s infamous weather, teasing a spring that was much closer to winter. The wet cold sapped my energy because it made my muscles stiff and it was much harder for me to get around. It’d been a long year.