44
Dale took a shaky breath and opened his eyes.
He was sitting sideways on a hard wooden chair right by the MacDonald Hall Entrance, one arm over the chair back. Maybe the same chair he’d rested his backpack on to find his meds. His tremulous muscles ached, battered by the quakes that only exhaustion had stopped. Fortunately, he was so out of shape the shaking couldn’t last long.
The guy with the ridiculous beard crouched in front of him, nothing but concern in his eyes. One of the nattily-suited Indian guys stood beside Dale, his hand steadying Dale’s backpack.
Chaos owned the hall. People paced back and forth, arms waving, voices raised in shouts of distress and fear. Everything rippled through the butter and frosting smeared on Dale’s glasses. His face felt greasy too.
“The police
