LYING IN BED AT 02:00, Banjo’s brain was churning through scenario after scenario, all of them unsurvivable accidents at sea. He wondered if Duck was trapped inside a submarine where oxygen was depleted and carbon dioxide had risen to toxic levels. Or if he was adrift at sea, bobbing up and down in the cold Atlantic Ocean. Or floating face down on the surface of the Pacific being feasted upon by great white sharks.
This was so unlike him. He wasn’t a pessimistic person. He was almost always the guy who never says die. He decided it was being cooped up in the hospital that was doing it to him. He had to get away from its depressing four walls.
He looked at the wall clock for the nth time that wee hour of the morning, 02:30. He hadn’t slept a wink. It was pointless to pretend he was gettin
