Hunter slept for fifteen hours before he even stirred, and that was only to go to the bathroom and swallow more painkillers. He let Clara out while he leaned against the doorframe and waited for her to take care of her business, the rain a steady drizzle.
Then he quite literally stumbled back to bed—he was so tired of shuffling and limping everywhere he went—and fell back asleep. When he woke again, his body felt rusty, like he needed a wizard with an oil can to help him get out of bed and into the shower.
He was only thirty-one-years-old. He shouldn’t feel this way for another few decades, and a flash of irritation mixed with injustice. Why had he had to be injured while in the line of duty?
Stop it, he told himself as he stepped into the hot spray. It would loosen him up, and he’d eat
