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.The people I admire most have all suffered.There is a spiritual dimension to struggle as well.Krishna once said that few people focused on him intensely except when they were in pain.Of course, the remark was impersonal.Krishna was not referring to his form, the events of his life, or even his words when he spoke of himself.He was not a god in need of praise.His idea of worship was infinitely flexible; he saw all deities as himself.Nevertheless, he felt pain gave humans the greatest incentive to focus on the supreme.It helps me, simply to remember Krishna.I suddenly feel more balanced.I come to a compromise inside.I’ll see Teri and Matt for a few years, maybe ten, no more, and then I’ll vanish from their lives before they realize I’m not aging.Under no circumstances will I ever let them know who I really am.Also, I’ll limit how much I spoil them.They’ll never enjoy their success if they don’t have to fight to get it.By the time I reach home, I feel I can make the relationship work.I’m fifty yards from my garage when I hear a faint whistle sound.I throw myself lengthwise across my front seat.My back and front window explode in a shower of glass.The bullet must have been unusually powerful.The windshields are supposed to be made of bulletproof glass.If I had moved a hundredth of a second later, I would have been missing a head.And even I, Sita, who have the blood of Yaksha and Kalika pumping through my veins, could not have survived such a wound.The person who just fired must know that.He must know exactly what it takes to kill me.Bullets pound my car.Several hit the windshield.Many more are aimed at the trunk.The sniper is using armor-piercing rounds and is hoping to penetrate the length of the car and kill me that way.He doesn’t know that, by wild chance, I bought a large amount of tools yesterday and have yet to remove them from my trunk.For the first time in my life, my laziness has saved my life.I want my assailant to think I’ve been hit, so I take my foot off the gas pedal and let my Porsche roll toward the garage door.Fortunately, it veers slightly to the right, bringing me closer to the safety of the house wall.I decide not to press the button that will open the garage door.Instead, I let the front end of the car hit the wall before I leap through the passenger door and make a beeline for the side of the house.My path leaves me exposed for a mere ten yards, and since I can move fifty times faster than any human being.I should be safe.Yet I’m only halfway to the corner of my house when the back of my right thigh suddenly feels like a mass of liquid fire.Somehow the sniper has shifted his aim from my car to my leg in a thousandth of a second.It might be a lucky shot on his part, but I seriously doubt it.I have to throw myself around the corner of the house.But that doesn’t stop his insane barrage.His bullets are not merely armor-piercing, they must be made of some kind of exotic metal—purified uranium perhaps.They blast through the plaster as if it were made of butter.It’s only when I near the side door that the contents of my garage—another half dozen vehicles—begin to act as a shield against his weaponry.Finally, he must realize he no longer has a shot at me, because he suddenly stops firing.I open the side door and limp inside the garage.I collapse on the floor.Blood pools around me in the dark.His bullet has not merely hit my leg, it’s torn away a chunk of flesh twice the size of my fist.By blind luck, he missed the major artery that runs down my leg.Yet he’s pulverized my sciatic nerve, and even I, who can heal instantly from almost any wound, will need time to rest and replace a major nerve.Until then I’m crippled, and he’s still out there, probably closing in on my position.I force myself to quiet my breath so I can hear what he’s doing.He’s in the woods—I can tell that much right away.But I’m surprised to hear him stay in the trees and not press his advantage.Then I realize just how smart he is.He doesn’t know for sure I’m wounded, and even if he can see my blood, he can’t know the extent of my injury.No doubt he’s afraid to expose himself by crossing the open field that lies between my house and the trees.I stop breathing altogether and am able to ascertain his exact position.He’s southwest of my house, two hundred yards into the woods.Again, I have to congratulate him on his caution.Even if I had a sniper rifle in hand, he would be a difficult target.It would be hard to get a clear shot through so many trees.But because he’s the one in the woods, and has no doubt cut away clear angles to my house, the reverse is not true.At present, he has the advantage.I can’t hear anyone else in the forest.Good.I can tolerate a tremendous amount of pain, but my ruined leg is pushing me to my limit.The tissue struggles to knit back together, but there’s simply too much missing.Ideally, I need a series of transfusions to speed up the healing process.But I doubt my assailant will let me take a blood break.I think of my upstairs vault.My only hope is to get to my weapons.It’s agony to stand, but I force myself to my feet.My world spins.There’s a cabinet nearby, filled with bathroom supplies, and I grab a roll of toilet paper and hastily wrap it around my wound.Blood immediately soaks through the paper, and I reach for another roll.The bleeding finally begins to slow.It’s not much, but it’s something.I limp into the house, trying to move as silently as possible, and take a flight of stairs to my bedroom.I’m surprised he continues his cease-fire.I keep expecting his exotic bullets to slam my west walls.Perhaps he wants me to feel hopeless before he spends any more ammunition
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