The nursing home smelled of antiseptic and old regrets.
Reed pushed through the double doors of Willow Crest Retirement Village at 4:12 a.m., the hour when even magic felt tired. The others waited in the van (engine running, windows fogged with Harold's anxious breath), but this part Reed had to do alone.
Room 217 was at the end of a corridor lit by failing fluorescents that flickered between modern buzz and gas-lamp hiss. A brass plaque on the door read: COL. ELIAS MORTON
'Recipient – Crimson Wyvern, First Class'
Do Not Disturb Before Coffee
Reed knocked anyway.
A gravelly voice answered, “If you're selling salvation, son, I already bought it in '78 and got a lousy T-shirt."
Reed opened the door.
The old man sat in a wheelchair by the window, silhouetted against the bruised pre-da
