The chromed runner shrugs. "Jean told you I was busy when you called," he says reasonably. "I only got the message"—he glances at his watch—"twenty minutes ago." He crosses to the couch and slumps down wearily. Hitting the treacherous springs doesn’t make him jump back up again. Either he’s too tired to react to multiple puncture wounds or his hoop’s as armored as a tank. "You said it was important," he notes.