Mike knew what he needed to do. He let his eyes flit around the bedroom, and counted five things he could see. There was the bed, freshly made with clean sheets. There was the window, looking out over the courtyard. There was the closet door, reinforced to double as a panic room. He didn’t want to know what the previous owners had gotten up to. There was his bag, ready and waiting to go. There was the little bed he’d ordered for Puddin.
He did the same routine for four things he could hear, three things he could feel, two things he could smell, and the one thing he could taste. That one thing was the bile that had risen in his throat at the mention of his time in captivity, but whatever. It still fit the purpose.
Debbie looked him over. “You good? We need to get going.”
He took a breath
