Forty-Three
Three-Hour Tour
Sergeant Wes Singh is a formidable man, even when he’s not overseeing your arrest for public intoxication and a rather spirited bout of chardonnay-fueled vandalism.
He strides off the ferry walkway and into the grassy greeting area of the parking lot where we’re waiting, offering his hand as I introduce him to Finan. He then turns to me. “Update on Rupert?”
“I spoke to him this morning. It’s non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma”—I swallow my sadness because now is the time for business—“but you know Rupert. He said he wants to see you as soon as we’re done. They’re discharging him today.”
“That’s good news, yes? Being discharged already?” Wes kneels to give Humboldt his undivided attention or else risk losing the skin on his hand from sandpapery bullmastiff tongue. “What
