He flung out his arm in the dark, knocking the portable set to the floor. Lunging to catch it, he banged his injured ankle, swore and despite his groggy state, located the upended receiver where it had landed on the floor. “Hello…” he mumbled, massaging his ankle and wondering if there was any ice to put on it. He squinted at the travel clock beside his bed. “Peter, do you know what time it is?” Mitch grumbled into the receiver. “It’s still early. Don’t tell me you’re in bed at one o’clock.” “It’s not still early, and it’s not one o’clock, either. You’re calling the Midwest, where people go to bed with the chickens and where it’s two hours later than it is in California. It’s three o’clock in the morning here.” “Did I just hear you groan?” Peter asked. Mitch finished propping up his throbbing ankle with a pillow.
