Mike wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t fully awake either. He was in that halfway there stage, the stage where the things you hear with the more conscious part of your brain can weave the outside world into your dreams as they cross into the side that"s drifting toward the land of Nod. At first, his mind thought the tinny tune was his alarm, but his semi-conscious brain couldn’t reason why he’d have one set. He stirred uncomfortably in the recliner, unbeknownst to him it was the very same recliner in which Rob Harrison had slept on that fateful Friday night, almost a week ago now. As he shifted, his brain formed the words of the song
Half - a - pound – of - tuppenny – rice,
Half - a - pound – of - tuppenny – rice,Half a pound of treacle,
Half a pound of treacle,That’s - the - way – the - mon
