“Lee!” Friday called as she let herself into the kitchen, juggling two brown paper grocery bags. “I got some nice tilapia at the Price Chopper.”
Lee didn’t answer.
Friday left the groceries on the kitchen table and called down into the basement, “Lee. Do you want your fish pan-fried?”
Friday heard Lee, upstairs, cough.
Climbing the stairs, she said, “You want bread crumbs or panko? I know, I know. Bread crumbs. You hate change. That’s a hell of a note for a revolutionist.”
In his bedroom, Lee grunted.
Friday found him struggling to sit up in bed. He was in his blue striped pajamas under the covers, three pillows crumpled behind him.
“In the middle of the afternoon,” Friday said. “How long have you been asleep?” And then more seriously, “You look like hell.”
Lee coughed into the back of his right hand, writhed out from under the covers until he was sitting up against the pillows.
“Jack Kennedy used to nap in pajamas every day after lunch,” he said.
Lee threw back the covers, swung his legs around so they hung over the side of the bed, and started to stand.
“I figured I’ll fry it up in some beer batter,” Friday said. “I got a six-pack of Theakston.”
But Lee had dropped to the floor as if he’d been sapped.