Sancho is curled up on his legs, looking at him balefully. Worse, Laney is sitting at the table, drinking a cup of coffee and reading a book, Gabe next to her drawing something in a coloring book. Patterson opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He clears his throat, drags up a mouse-sized hunk of mucus, and swallows it. The room swims in a nauseous yellow cloud. He gags. “Hello,” Laney says. “How are you feeling?” “I’m all right,” Patterson says. “No,” she says. She holds her slightly red nose over her cup of coffee and inhales. “You’re not all right.” “I’m not?” “Do you remember the hospital?” she asks. He shakes his head. “You have two hairline fractures, a pulled muscle, and your wrist is sprained. I didn’t even know you could sprain a wrist, but you did it. You also have a broken nose, apparently from falling face-first into the floor about two steps after you made it into the cabin.
