Removes bullet

That sounded fine to me. The next time I opened my eyes, I was in the morgue.
This, all by itself, is enough to really ruin your day.
I was lying on the examining table, and Butters, complete with his surgical gown and his tray of autopsy instruments, stood over me.
"I'm not dead!" I sputtered. "I'm not dead!"
Murphy appeared in my field of vision, her hand on my chest. "We know that, Harry. Easy. We've got to get the bullet out of you. We can't take you to the emergency room. They have to report any gunshot wounds."
"I don't know," Butters said. "This X ray is all screwed up. I'm not sure it's showing me where the bullet is. If I don't do this right, I could make things worse."
"You can do it," Murphy said. "The technical stuff always messes up around him."
Things spun around.
Michael stood over me at one point, his hand on my head. "Easy, Harry. It's almost done."
And I thought, Great. I'm going to require an armed escort to make sure I get to hell.
When I woke up again, I was in a small bedroom. Stacks and boxes and shelves of fabric filled the place nearly to the ceiling, and I smiled, recognizing it. The Carpenters' guest room.
On the floor next to the bed was Michael's breastplate. There were four neat holes in it where the bullets had gone through. I sat up. My shoulder screamed at me, and I found it covered in bandaging.


Death Masks Chapter 33, Page 301