On Sunday, Nov. 29, I was returning from Thanksgiving travel with my family. Our plane touched down at La Guardia around 7 p.m., and we arrived at our home in the Fort Greene area of Brooklyn at 8. Shortly thereafter, I went out to get some groceries.

Carrying my groceries around 9 p.m., I crossed onto my block, about a dozen doors from my home. Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt as if someone had hit me on the back of my head. I yelled an expletive. Turning around, I saw the silhouette of someone running away across the street. I wasn’t going to take off to pursue my assailant, so I decided to continue home.

But I found that I couldn’t walk steadily and veered, first into a wall, then into a parked car. I placed my hand to my neck, and it came away covered in blood. My mind went back to my childhood in the suburbs of Los Angeles, to a brief and not particularly successful stint as a Boy Scout. One is supposed to apply pressure to a deep wound.

On doing so, my mind cleared, and I was able once again to walk steadily. I proceeded to my home and unlocked the front door. I live about two blocks from Brooklyn Hospital Center and figured I could probably get there more quickly by walking than by waiting for an ambulance.