I stopped my three-footed happy dance (two crutches and one leg) and turned to face him. He wore jeans and a T-shirt and had dark circles under his eyes, a two-day-old growth of beard and heavy lids. “I’ve heard of dogs looking like their owners, but this is the first time I’ve seen an owner look like his dog.” He glowered at me, and I wiped the grin off my face. “Uh-oh. I woke you, didn’t I?” “What the hell was all that racket? First the phone, then the fax machine. Who were you talking to so early in the morning?” “Sorry about that. Go back to bed. I promise I’ll be quiet.” He rejected that suggestion with a frustrated wave. “Forget it. I’m up now,” he said, heading for the kitchen. “I made some coffee. Can I get you a cup?” I chirped, hobbling along. In the kitchen, I pointed him to a chair, grabbed a mug from the cupboard and poured.
