He swore to himself
quietly, and shouted Shit! at the low basement ceiling. He couldn't have
been asleep for more than a few seconds, and the half-window that Davey
had escaped through gaped open at him like a sneer.
He tottered to his feet and went out to find Kurt, bare feet jammed into
sneakers, bare chest and bandages covered up with a jacket. He found
Kurt cutting through the park, dragging his heels in the bloody dawn
light.
Kurt looked at his expression, then said, "What happened?" He had his
fists at his sides, he looked tensed to run. Alan felt that he was
waiting for an order.
"He got away."
"How?"
Alan shook his head. "Can you help me get dressed? I don't think I can
get a shirt on by myself."
They went to the Greek's, waiting out front on the curb for the old man
to show up and unchain the chairs and drag them out around the table. He
served them tall coffees and omelets sleepily, and they ate in silence,
too tired to talk.
"Let me take you to the doctor?" Kurt asked, nodding at the bandage that
bulged under his shirt.
"No," Alan said. "I'm a fast healer."
Kurt rubbed at his calf and winced. "He broke the skin," he said.
"You got all your shots?"
"Hell yeah. Too much crap in the dumpsters. I once found a styro cooler
of smashed blood vials in a Red Cross trash."
"You'll be okay, then," Alan said.
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