91
Two mornings later.
I wake up with that special kind of exhaustion you get after sleeping twelve hours without moving. Our bed in the Bayswater safe house has a cloud masquerading as a mattress, plus a really cushy pillow and halfway decent blankets. My arms object to pulling the blankets back. My eyelids consider mutiny, but finally decide to obey orders and grind open.
I don’t have sand in my eyes. They’re pebbles.
The other side of the bed is only faintly warm. Deke’s been up for a while.
The doctor said my side would be fine, though he hadn’t seen a bruise that bad since the last time someone got kicked by a horse. He advised I take it easy and avoid exercise for a week. The bruise is the size of a dinner plate, and while the edges are starting to turn green and smear, the midd
