67
My brain zings to full alertness, and the grungy hotel room snaps from a somewhat sleepy haze into high definition.
Unfortunately.
The coffee Deke’s put by my head smells surprisingly good, but isn’t potent enough to cover the years of hotel room grunge ground into the worn-out carpet. I’m not nearly all the way into the splits, but a sudden ripple of tension down my spine makes my pelvis go from aching to outright hurting, compelling me to ease up an inch. The walls desperately need painting any color except their current baby poop beige.
Really, the best-looking part of the room is the subtly graffitied landscape painting over the bed, and it’s hung a few degrees off true.
Nancy’s caught my tension. She barely keeps herself in her chair, knotting her fingers together instead. Wil
