I forced open heavy eyelids and noticed the Himalaya salt plug nightlight was on, courtesy of Rey or Linda, no doubt. In slow motion, I glanced at the bicycle clock. It read 10:25 … maybe. It was a bit fuzzy.
A warm breeze blew in through the partly open window. I felt snug, comfortable, relatively pain-free. I closed my eyes again, wondering if I’d have more strange dreams. Cash and me on a sailboat. Rey, Linda, and I ambling down countless hallways in Aunt Mat’s haunted Connecticut mansion, searching relentlessly for Emile, with Death Angel wafting behind us like a netherworld specter. Johnny, his face in shadows, limping into the office dressed in black, his face in shadows, and twirling a lasso. Harry bebopping on a bar counter, juggling flaming oranges.
“You feeling okay, Fonne?”
“
