I unconsciously lick my lips, remembering all the many times I’ve savored Tank’s taste.
“Should be just up ahead,” Tank says. “Look out for a red-painted sign on your right and take the little track down to the lake.”
This is the most Tank has spoken for the past twenty or so minutes. His hands fist in the afghan, and he rolls the fabric around his arms. I can’t help thinking that I’ve tasted him for the last time. But when I glance quickly over to the passenger’s seat, my fears yet again are eclipsed by my concern for Tank.
I lay the back of my hand across his forehead. He doesn’t appear to have a temperature. I then move the hand down to squeeze his left biceps through the blanket.
“Tank?”
“Nearly there.” He lets out a long breath.
I hope so, because whatever we’re about to arrive
