Chapter 11He’d lost a day.
Monday morning, more than thirty-six hours had slipped by since the attack, and Jimmy McSwain still woke to a throbbing headache. His puffy eyes opened to a blurry world, but he thought he could detect a figure hovering over him, existing only as a shadow, dancing across the slit of his eyes like the taunt of death. He blinked and it disappeared, not yet ready to claim him. Far from it, he might be battered and bruised, but Jimmy would heal.
“Where am I?” he asked, his voice scratchy.
“Home.”
His mother’s voice, that much he recognized. A good sign, no permanent damage.
“Good, smells…sweet.”
“Banana bread, your favorite.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled.
“I should have brought you to the hospital,” she said.
“No,” he said, his voice scratchy.
“That’s what you said
