He was told he had exactly eight days to live. By a blind psychic photographer. Okay, Wooly Cornell was plenty crazy-not to mention a huge asshole-but he asked me to help him. So I did. And as the countdown to his death began and I found myself facing threats, shootouts, a mysterious scarred woman and weird predictions that somehow managed to come true, I could only come to one conclusion: Fate is one strange thing to fight.