I offered to make him coffee, knowing full well he didn’t eat or drink, and that after spending almost twenty four hours in a room with me and five angels, he’d happily make up some excuse. He accepted. And he attempted to assist in the coffee–making.“Ground up, burnt beans, right?” he asked, sniffing the canister of Folgers. I hated to disappoint him, but I was too tired to do fresh ground beans in the French press. “The machine runs hot water over the beans, then goes through a filter into the pot so you don’t have the grounds floating around your drink and getting stuck in your teeth.”I put a filter in the coffee maker and handed him a tablespoon. “Here. Scoop out ten tablespoons of the coffee grounds and dump them into the filter.”While he was occupied with that, I texted Wyatt to let him know I was back. I also had to re–send the one to Candy. Something, or someone, had blocked cell phone reception in the Marriott, so not only did hers not go out, but I’d returned to five messages from Wyatt informing me of his progress on our project, and that he’d killed yet another demon while safely behind his spiffy new wall.
