For the second time that evening, Matteo awoke in a strange place surrounded by strange people. This time, however, at least two of the faces were vaguely familiar. He thought they were, anyway. It was a bit difficult to say for sure when everyone except the solemn priest bending over him was an out-of-focus blur.  He raised a hand to grope down the pew as if feeling for his glasses, then let it fall again, empty. 

It was all rushing back to him. Old Bear, the fight, the fist. The question [i]"Did I lose?"[/i] wasn’t even on the table-- he’d never even been a player. 

He made a hoarse sound that became a sigh. [b]“Thank you,”[/b] he uttered first to his unknown benefactor and the two girls who’d clearly gotten him help in some form or another. The curly-haired youth remained laying on his back, staying very still. After a moment, his hands came up to touch his face.

No cuts, no stinging, no pain. His hesitant fingers became rigid with surprise as he touched smooth skin.  [b]“I didn’t imagine that, did I?”[/b] he asked skeptically, testing his now-unbroken nose. [b]“How long was I…”[/b] The last thing he remembered was the guards arriving to break up the crowd. Matteo winced. [i]If they had just come a little sooner, I could have gotten out of there on my own...[/i]