4
Steak And Eggs
I woke up from a deep, deep sleep. The car droned along a half-empty motorway in the early-morning light. Philippe sat bolt upright like a machine, two hands rigid on the big old Volvo steering wheel. I mean, how the hell was he alive? He died, then had his heart pulled out. Now he was here, driving us somewhere in some old rust bucket with dirty brown velour seats and a custard dash. I fumbled for the seat lever and jerked myself upright. I shifted up in my seat and stretched.
Philippe glanced over. “How do you feel?”
“Okay … I think.”
The immunosuppressants seemed to have done the trick. My fever had gone. Ditto the churning in the pit of my stomach. Shame I couldn’t say the same for the bruises up and down my body. I flipped my visor down and rubbed my neck in the
