Chapter 5: US Marshal Ken Sullivan
I was so cold that I knew I wanted all the wet clothes off. Screw modesty. Screw embarrassment. I was counting on the blankets to absorb the residual melted snow off my skin. But…there were guys who would choose misery and danger over the possibility of another touching their junk. I had no idea where on that spectrum Branham fell.
Apparently, not so uptight as to want to keep his drenched, icy tighty whites on. We were both still shaking pretty damn hard. The kerosene heater was turned up high but it was working against a building that started at about thirty degrees or so. Even in the smaller space of the stall, it was going to take a good long while to hit anywhere close to warm.
My head pounded in time with my pulse. Concussion was probably right.
