bumper sticker on the back. It is worth noting that by the standards of my life, this was not a terribly incongruous entrance. Michael regarded the slaughterhouse for a moment after he had killed the ignition and said, “This is a bad place.” “Yeah,” I said. I rubbed at the small of my back. I’d gotten a few hours’ worth of sleep before we’d left, on the futon mattress on the floor beneath Maggie’s bed. Mouse had been happy to snuggle up to me. The lummox likes to pretend he’s still a tiny puppy that will fit on my lap if he tries hard enough, and I’d been too tired to argue with him. As a result, I’d had to practice defensive sleeping, and it had left my back a little twitchy. On the upside, even the modest amount of sleep I’d gotten had done wonders to restore me, or at least the power of the Winter mantle. I felt practically normal, broken arm, gunshot wound, and all. Michael was dressed in his old mail, which he had kept clean and scoured free of rust despite his retirement.
