The butler’s body, the butler’s pain, heavy with sedative. It’s like coming home.
I’m barely awake, and already slipping back toward sleep.
It’s getting dark. A man’s pacing back and forth across the tiny room, a shotgun in his arms.
It’s not the Plague Doctor. It’s not Gold.
He hears me stir and turns around. He’s in shade. I can’t make him out.
I open my mouth, but no words come out of it.
I close my eyes and slip away again.