Le Guin Orr opened the door. His hair hung in locks and snarls, his eyes were bloodshot, his lips dry. He stared at her blinking. He looked degraded and undone. She was terrified of him. "Are you ill?" she said sharply. "No, I ... Come in. . . ." She had to come in. There was a poker for the Franklin stove: she could defend herself with that. Of course, he could attack her with it, if he got it first. Oh for Christsake she was as big as he was almost, and in lots better shape. Coward coward. "Are you high?" "No, I ..." "You what? What's wrong with you?" "I can't sleep," The tiny cabin smelt wonderfully of woodsmoke and fresh wood. Its furniture was the Franklin stove with a two-plate cooker top, a box full of alder branches, a cabinet, a table, a chair, an army cot. "Sit down," Heather said. "You look terrible. Do you need a drink, or a doctor? I have some brandy in the car. You'd better come with me and we'll find a doctor in Lincoln City." "I'm all right. It's just mumble mumble get sleepy." "You said you couldn't sleep." He looked at her with red, bleary eyes.
