Chapter 22I think it was the poet Rugyard Kipperling, or something like that, who scribbled some nonsense about the dawn coming up like thunder across some bay or other. I know that my fussy eighth-grade teacher made us memorize and repeat it until we wanted to choke her but settled for sneaking a dead mouse into her purse. Be that as it may, the dawn came up today, but the only thunder I heard was ricocheting around in my head. Once I made it to the bathroom, I downed several aspirins and then walked carefully to the kitchen, where I managed to brew some strong coffee for my remorseless hangover.
The aspirins and java were slowly reducing the peals of thunder to low rumbles. Then the phone screeched and ended the relative quiet. My instinct was not to answer it, but more than a dozen rin
