Drenched in sweat, Oswaldo Fontecchio awoke in the darkness gasping for breath, both hands outstretched in an automatic defensive reaction. But the Manhunter did not slap into his open palm. In the dim light from the wall washstand of the coffin motel, he saw the VPR2 lying nearby on the fold-out table. Memories returned as his dream-state induced by too much saki slowly wore off. Rivulets of sweat running down his face, Fontecchio cradled his head trying to shut out the memories of his day of shame. How could he have been so stupid? He’d removed his wet coat because it slowed him down. Fool.