The sheet under my fingertips was cool and crisply pressed. I blinked several times, my eyes adjusting to a strong light streaming in from a large window. The door of the room was ajar, and from the hallway I could hear the murmur of voices and beeping machines. The air smelled of fake lemons. In the corner, a chair was angled attentively toward my bed, and for a second I wondered why Peter wasn’t in it. Then I remembered, and I wondered where Manu was.
The contents of my coat pockets were laid out on the bedside table in a patch of sunlight: the red paint chip, a handful of coins, a metro ticket and my collection of stolen IDs. Someone was going to want an explanation for those.
I tried to push myself to sitting, but a sharp pain tore through my left side. I eased myself back down. Oth
