The nightmare ended with the soft clink of glasses against each other.
He startled awake just as a tree branch cracked against the windowpane. The book in his lap fell to the floor, as the second gust of wind blew a smattering of rain against the window.
Just a typical Odyssey November.
Richard wiped the crust from the corners of his eyes. Mr. Whittaker's old grandfather clock in the corner of the room read twelve-thirty. On the carpet, the book, The Sea Wolf, lay face down.
Again.
Jason was gonna kill him for abusing his book like this. Already, a crease could be spotted in the cover from hitting the floor one-too-many times.
His left eye twitched as he rubbed it, trying to rub the last of the nightmare from his vision. It lingered under his eyelids and in the shadows. He snatched up the flashlight next to his bed stand and shone it at the shadow behind the grandfather clock.
Nothing.
His gaze fell to the closed closet door. He slid off the bed and limped to the closet, then flung it open.
Empty, besides Jason's collection of cardigan sweaters. He checked behind those, too. Nothing there either.
He picked up the book before he slid onto the bed once more, then sat in an awkward, half-cross-legged position. His hard, white ankle cast worked as a book stand as he skimmed the pages.
None of it looked familiar. He flipped all the way back to chapter one before he recognized a fragment of the story. Humphrey's ship had collided with another ship in the bay. The character found himself thrown off the vessel and sucked into the vast, wide ocean.
"And I was alone, floating, apparently, in the midst of a gray primordial vastness. I confess that a madness seized me, that I shrieked aloud as the women had shrieked, and beat the water with my numb hands…"
A rumble surfaced from deep within Richard's gut. His appetite was fashionably late to dinner.
Maybe he could sneak a sandwich. A ham and mustard sandwich. His mouth watered.
He slapped the book shut and dragged himself from the bed once more, snagging his crutch as he did a one-footed hop past the dresser it leaned on.
He held his breath as he opened the door, then stepped into the dark hallway, cringing at every creak and shiver of the house the wind sent through it. The door to Doctor Allen's room remained closed.
So far, so good.
Despite the cast and crutch, Richard glided down the stairs with the practice of a trained professional. He shivered a little as he entered the kitchen, then opened the fridge to chase the dark away.
The fridge light was like Heaven coming down to bless him with holy food. He slid the white bread from the shelf with surgical precision and set it on the counter.
He grimaced as he fumbled with the twist tie on the bag, the hand in the cast stiff and clumsy.
He didn't need a fancy sandwich, anyway. Bread. Ham, Mustard. He slapped the ingredients without care onto the bread and didn't even bother to get a plate.
He picked up the sandwich with his good hand, then bit into the soft bread.
Tang and meat filled his mouth, a simple, wholesome blend. He savored it. His brush with death had made food seem so special. The colorful taste of strawberry Jell-O in that bleak hospital was one of his first memories after the Blackgaard Thing, and one he'd cherish until death.
He cleaned up, then dragged himself back to the stairs. Sandwich in one hand and crutch in the other, he made it two steps before he tipped backward. He fell in slow motion, then crunched his tailbone at the bottom.
He lay there, breathless, staring at the ceiling.
Footsteps creaked across the second floor.
Breathing a curse, he scrambled to get up. He instead writhed like an idiot. He pressed a hand to the base of his spine and held his breath.
"Richard?" The query floated down from the top of the dark stairs.
"I'm fine," he groaned.
The light clicked on. He squeezed his eyes shut. Even under his eyelids, the bright redness consumed him. He covered his face with his hands.
"Oh, dear." The stairs squeaked.
Richard took another deep breath and held it. He gritted his teeth. "I said I'm fine. Nothing I can't handle."
"Oh, Richard." Mr. Allen was next to his ear. He prodded at Richard's cast. "Are you hurt?"
"No, I'm perfectly fine and normal. I'm just dandy."
Mr. Allen wrapped a hand around Richard's wrist. "Come on," he tugged a little, "let's get you to bed."
Richard squinted when he removed his hands. Legs numb, he managed to stand. He avoided Mr. Allen's gaze when he offered the crutch.
At a snail's pace, they shuffled up the steps.
Mr. Allen cleared his throat. "Whatever you needed, I could have got it for you."
The residual tang from the mustard was now sour in Richard's mouth. "I'm fine."
"I never mind it when you wake me up."
"I'm good, thanks."
The conversation stopped there, like a roadblock. Richard didn't care to find a way around it.
Mr. Allen let him go just outside of Richard's room.
Richard shut and locked the door.
Emptiness settled in his stomach.
He returned to the soft bed and again opened The Sea Wolf. What would happen to Humphrey, now that he was drowning?
He smirked as the rain continued to beat his window. Good ambiance for reading.
The grandfather clock struck One.
He walked through the back door of Whit's End, into the dark kitchen. His heart ground against his ribs and into his ears.
The flecks of blood on the tile stood out like a sore thumb.
He smiled and touched his nose, then moved to the kitchen door. He peered through the plastic window into the hub of Whit's End.
The fans on the ceiling twirled in slow, gentle unison. The tables under them, shiny and clean, sat abandoned in the autumn light.
He pushed the door open, then flinched at the thunderous squeak it made against the deafening silence. He let it fall closed behind him as he tiptoed to the other side of the ice cream counter.
Two pristine and full glasses of liquid with ice sat on the counter. He wiped some crumbs from a stool and sat, then tentatively sipped one of the drinks.
Lemonade.
A creak from the bowels of Whit's End caused him to whip his head around. The basement door creaked halfway open.
He looked away.
Slow footsteps echoed across the wooden floor.
Richard put his free hand across his eyes.
Someone slid onto the bar stool next to him.
Silence.
Richard took a deep breath and uncovered his eyes, but looked away and out the window at the blurry fog.
In the window reflection, Regis Blackgaard took the second drink and swirled its contents. The ice rattled against the glass.
After an eternity, he raised the glass in the air. "To us."
Richard's gut twisted when the rich voice penetrated the silence and filled the room.
Blackgaard pushed his glass against Richard's.
Clink.
He startled awake just as a tree branch cracked against the windowpane. The book in his lap fell to the floor, as the second gust of wind blew a smattering of rain against the window.
Richard wiped the crust from the corners of his eyes. Mr. Whittaker's old grandfather clock in the corner of the room read one-thirty. On the carpet, the book lay face down.
Again.
Richard pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose.
He should have died in that ravine instead of being strung along this hellish lifeline, like a puppet for Satan's amusement.
He pinched the bags underneath his eyes. They ached. His eyes ached.
Everything ached, inside and out. Lucy had said that once.
A tear spilled onto his fingers.
He grabbed the borrowed pillow and pressed his face into it.
The book would stay on the floor this time. Humphrey could drown on his own for now.