Up until now, the hurt had waited at the edges of his consciousness, only occasionally pawing at him, but now it galloped forward at full speed. He reached out blindly for the nearest table, but his knees buckled first. A hand grabbed him from behind, saving his head from hitting the floor. “Hold on, big fellow, I got you.” The piano player eased him into a chair. “Maybe you’d better lay off the whiskey for a while. Sober up a bit.” “Oh, Isaac, he ain’t drunk.” Ginger’s voice sounded muffled, as if cotton filled her cheeks. Jake snorted at the image and slumped forward onto the table. “He must be sick. I was just talking to him upstairs and he was fine. I left him with Cera. What’s wrong, Jake?” Soft hands lifted his face. “He’s burning up. Mary Beth!” Ginger called out. “Get me some water and a cloth. I swear he was fine a few minutes ago.” Jake sighed when the cool dampness hit his skin. He wanted to speak—to tell them he was fine, thank you very much—but the pain dulled his brain.
