He was strong, still pretty young. If they’d just stop filling him up with those painkillers, he’d be all right. Right now he was swimming in a dark sea of oxycodone. He knew he had a broken leg, but he’d seen people with broken legs walking around in a kind of boot. Why couldn’t they give him a boot? He was in a real mess, that he knew. He remembered a tree falling into his bedroom—he was pretty sure that hadn’t been a dream—trapping him in his bed, and someone refusing to lift the tree off him—and he thought maybe that someone was Sergeant Lars Larson. But maybe not, maybe that part was a dream. Lars Larson was normally a good man, less inclined than many to pick on him. He needed to get back home, to lock his doors and keep people out. Lots of people had come into his house—into his own private house! And now they knew about his things. His very own, valuable things. They’d pick up his things, move his things, handle them, maybe damage them.
