He needed human companionship, and he had satisfied his needs by taking an all-night disc jockey to bed with him. The DJ had no talent for conversation, but his voice was rich and soothing and he was very good at monologue. The sniper lay on his back, the radio nestled in the crook of his arm, a sharp corner digging into his ribs. He was very tired, but couldn’t fall asleep. Although he’d adjusted the thermostat as high as it would go before he’d crawled into his sleeping bag, he could still feel the ice in his bones, and every few minutes, without warning, his body would shake with cold, violent, uncontrollable spasms that went on and on, draining him of strength and leaving him feeling weak, exhausted. He rolled over on his side, hugging himself tight, trying to conserve the heat seeping out of him into the chill air of the apartment. As he moved, his arm brushed against the dial of the radio. The DJ’s voice filled with static, became scratchy and indistinct, faded.
