The click of a door opening and closing to Nash’s left was loud in the otherwise silent room. Shuffling sounds followed, and he sensed people standing over him. His head and arm felt like he was in a torture chamber rather than a hospital. Memories of waking up earlier in post-op flooded his consciousness, and the soft thuds of feet migrated away toward the right.
“The rat-bastard called me a half-hour ago,” Harley whispered.
“He heard? It’s on the news?” Angela whispered. “I suppose it was only a matter of time, with Nash being kind of infamous now, before they picked up on his name and made the story bigger than it should be.”
None of that made any sense at all. Nash had no idea whom Harley was talking about, although Angela seemed to know who the rat-bastard was. Infamous? Apparently
