Falcon looked at the stranger with increased respect. He'd seen someone take a bullet wound once—a First Nation member shot in the leg by a Screamer in a gang war. Just a scratch was all it had looked like, but what the trid called "wound shock" had really trashed his chummer out, knocked him flat on his butt. All he could do was lie there, staring dully at the blood seeping through his jeans. In contrast this guy had taken a bullet in the ribs—a nasty wound, judging by the amount of blood showing on his fingers—but he was handling it okay. Sure, he was tired, probably from blood loss, but he could still joke about it.