Chapter Twenty
I had woken up in a hospital room, lying in bed but not attached to any machines or anything. The room looked small and quiet, and the walls were painted a soft green.
“It must be nice to wake to the smell of hot cross buns.” Uncle Willard laid down the white flute whose ambience had filled the air. “Or the sound, anyway.”
“I think I’d prefer the pastry.” I rubbed my belly, which rumbled with hunger.
“I suppose it is better than the same annoying three notes, over and over.” He played again, by way of illustrating.
“How you holding up?” my uncle asked.
“I’m thirsty,” I answered.
“Seems to me you already had plenty to drink!” He laughed, and I joined in, but he poured me a cup from the pitcher by my bedside. My mouth felt the kind of dry where the water hits cold and s
