I slapped the bedside table for the device. “I think you left it in the kitchen,” Wendy said. I felt the bed rebound as she left the mattress. “Ummph,” I said. “Do you want me to answer?” she asked. “Sure.” I yawned cobwebs from my brain and heard jogging feet, Mix-up’s claws scratching on tile as he followed Wendy to the kitchen. She was back seconds later, holding the phone. “Doctor Peltier needs to talk to you.” I moaned internally and reluctantly took the phone. “Good morning, Clair. How are you tod—” “You may want to open the paper,” she said. “Or you may not.” Click. “Carson?” Wendy asked as I rolled to sitting, throwing the phone to the bed. “Are you all right?” “I’m supposed to check the paper. It should be in the drive.” She slipped into the outsize tee I’d offered for sleeping – not needed – and padded away, her long legs whisking toward the front door. I followed, sending Mix-up out to do his business as I watched Wendy Holliday cross my sandy yard in scant ounces of cotton, the shirt’s hem high enough that she had to crouch to retrieve the Register.
