“He’s fine,” Patrick insisted, blowing steam from the hot mug in his hands. “I told him he should eat some cookies after giving so much blood, but the boy just doesn’t listen.” “He looks pretty banged up,” said the man from the gate. “And you don’t look so hot yourself. You guys run up against the Carsons?” Patrick shrugged and sipped his tea. It tasted earthy, like mud and bark with some flower petals thrown in. He picked a splinter of some dark root from his lips and wiped it on his jeans. “We met old man Mighty Mouse at a theater up the road,” he said. “Short guy, dressed like the Joker, not very hospitable.” “Spiver,” the whole gang said in unison. “Bat or knife?” asked a somber-looking girl by the fire. Her eyes were large and sad, pale green against the orange light of the flames. She had delicate, pale skin and dirty blonde hair pried back from her face into a long ponytail.
