Sweat cooled on his brow and neck, and it felt good after so much heat. With some effort, he managed to sit up in the bed. The room was murky, shadows on shadows. The space between the drapes was dark. He listened for sounds in the house, but he only heard the distant clopping of hooves on stone. Sliding his legs around to dangle off the side of the bed, Butch took a cautious breath, filled his lungs. The air rattled in his chest, and the fluid there bubbled. He coughed painfully and brought up a thick wad of muck. On the table beside his bed he found a ceramic bowl and he spit into it and managed another deep breath, which along with the cool sweat were the only pleasant sensations he could feel. His body hurt all over. He couldn’t remember a single wrestling bout or bar fight that had left him so thoroughly miserable. Even when the Hungarian, Dobos, had snapped Butch’s wrist, the pain and incapacitation had been isolated, and he’d felt healthy despite the injury. Now he simply felt weak and beaten, but he was on the mending side of the sickness, whatever it had been.
