CHAPTER 8
He gets better and better over the next couple of days. No more twelve-hour sleep fests. And he doesn’t wince so much when I give him fresh boxers from the pack I bought at Food Lion. But that leads to boredom.
“There a reason you don’t have a TV?” he asks the fourth night into his stay.
I’m bringing him a meal on a tray. He can sit up now and even use a knife and fork—not that I’ve let him have either of those. In fact, I locked all the knives away in my storage closet, and I count and recount my four forks first thing when I get in from a shift.
Ant and his guys didn’t give him back his weapons before kicking him out. Plus, he’s still handcuffed. And even if he got out, he’d probably only be able to shuffle around the apartment at a snail’s pace with that bullet lodged in h
