Krone. Craig barely had any concept of how to retaliate or survive, and even Edith’s suggestions couldn’t save him. He was eaten alive by the dead—hordes upon hordes of them. Then Katie watched him bleed in the car without any regard to his health. And now he was here at Willis’s sports bar Half-Time, the blink and change of scene occurring seconds before the car slammed into the trees. Dr. Krone showed no signs of slowing down the treatment. Treatment. That was the word he kept using. What did the man have to gain from this? Not even Edith knew the answer to that question. His wounds had miraculously scabbed over. The shape of teeth and jagged marks were caked brown, as if aged. Forced to move on from the observation, he looked on at Half-Time, a bustling pub. Dart boards, pool tables, a twelve-piece arcade room, foosball, and eleven screens playing professional sports and independent events like logging championships and lady football kept the place hopping. The blink delivered him onto a stool, sitting at the bar.
