The hours of folly are measured by the clock; but of wisdom, no clock can measure. -William Blake
A deep-seated burn infiltrates my nostrils.
What the hell is that?
My eyes fly open. Zeroing in on Drake's face, I try to move my arms but can't. Turning my head, I realize I'm partially in Drake's arms: he cradles my upper body while my legs occupy one half of a hard, flat surface - a table maybe.
Lids fluttering, I slowly begin to drift.
Someone clears his throat, Drake maybe, but I'm not sure.
That deep burn returns, but this time, it makes me cough. Pain radiates in and round my chest, sides, and back.
Eyes open once more, I blink to try and clear my vision.
"Well, hello there." His gray, piercing eyes study my face. "Did you have a nice nap?"
"What's that God-awful smell?" I tur
