Chapter 17:
The empty bottle of scotch lay next to Doyle’s chair. Feeling sorry for himself, he spent the majority of the previous night finishing the bottle. The next morning his head hurt worse than his ribs, and his neck was so stiff, he was certain it would never straighten again.
It must be later, like near afternoon. The sun was up and the fog burned off. It looked like a glorious late summer day outside in contrast to his dark foul mood inside the room. Standing, he stretched as best he could, working the kinks out of his body, taking care not to overstretch his sore ribs.
An arm on either side of the window, he bent over stretching his ribs as far as possible. His breath held against the pain, he closed his eyes until he couldn’t take the strain any longer. This morning, he was
