CHAPTER 6
DOC
I awake with a start in a bed—a big, nice-smelling, incredibly soft bed. And a huge, honkin’ headache where all my memories should be.
Where am I?
None of the beds in my day-to-day life are this big. Or soft. I sleep on cots in the on-call rooms, on the floor of the roadhouse, or on the same mattress I’ve had since I was seventeen. I make myself as narrow as possible every night to avoid all the lumps and raised springs. And I wake pressed against shelves, floors, and walls, not in sheets that smell and feel like warm spring days.
What the heck?
As if in answer to my question, memories suddenly come flooding back, pushing past the headache.
The gangster busting into my room.
Me giving up the ghost on handling everything myself and trying to call Hyena.
Getting backha
