Meghan, as far as I could tell, was never more in her element than when she was letting people know how stupid they were.
“For your information,” she crisply told the nurse, “his name is not Sorcerer. That’s not even his nickname. What kind of a name is that?” She told the nurse my particulars, as far as she knew them.
The nurse looked at the chart. “The paramedics asked him, and that’s what he said.”
Meghan looked at me and furrowed her eyebrows. “He was delirious. The poor little guy was in pain.”
The nurse shrugged. “It says that exsanguination was a definite concern.”
The “poor little guy” comment didn’t bother me. My chest and shoulder, raked by the hound’s talons, weren’t bothering me much either. I felt no compulsion to open my eyes. I could lie there forever if they let me. I
