Chapter Thirty-Four Thursday, December 10
I hate needles. f*****g hate ‘em.
The first thing I note as consciousness finally returns is that I’m in a chair. An uncomfortable one. I try to shift my position, causing the pins-and-needles sensation to shoot through my legs and up my spine. I wince at the irony.
“Bernard?” says a voice I’ve come to know very well in the past few days.
“Grrrr…graaam…” I slur, but my mouth is unable to form words.
“Don’t try to talk yet,” Grandpa Bernie says, his voice so close it sounds like he’s inches away.
I crack my eyelids open, and my grandfather’s face swims into focus. His expression is one of relief mixed with worry.
“Wh-wheerr—”
“I said don’t talk. Whatever sedative that bastard injected you with knocked you out for more than half a day. As to
