“Doc Smythe!” the biter said. “Howdy!”
Smythe’s eyes shook over the men, jittering a little too long on the biter and the orderly standing behind him. He addressed the latter first.
“Is there a problem, Tre?”
Tre, in a voice like an elephant with a head cold pointed at the nail biter.
“Ask Shawn.”
Shawn, however, had resumed his relaxed posture: legs stuck straight out before him, one arm resting over his stomach. He gnawed absently at his thumb.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” Smythe said. “That’s what I thought.”
He let out a shuddering breath, then turned and started at the imposing sight of Topher and Zorn.
“Oh my. You’re the new arrivals. I’m Doctor Smythe.”
He nosed toward his seat and sat primly on its edge. Then he pulled a green binder from his bag and studied i
