With a start, McGauran sits up on the cot, panicked and breathless. For a second, he doesn’t know where he is. His heart races. His hands are knotted into hard fists.
“I knew you were having a nightmare.”
He blinks, looking over. Widow Leary sits at the table, in a shaft of sunlight, mending a shirt. “You were moaning and tossing like a devil in holy water there.”
And she was watching him? He runs a hand across his sleepy face and glances down at himself. He’s in his shirtsleeves and his undershirt is damp with sweat. “What time is it?” His voice is hoarse. “Did the seven o’clock church bells toll?”
“Nah, don’t worry. You’re not that late yet. What were you dreaming about? No, wait, don’t tell me. It’s bad luck to talk about our nightmares.” She shoots him a quick look. “Who’s Honoré?
