Cold raindrops landed on his freckles and trickled into the network of rivers along his skin. An army of tiny knives stabbed his legs. He pushed deep breaths through his lungs and kept his stride. He counted out thuds punctuated by thick, muddy splooshes on the leaf-smothered trail. Suddenly, warmth flooded his veins as he harnessed the wind.
“Mr. Wallace?” The orderly repeated.
Tom Wallace was sitting up in bed clutching the cat spray bottle, face soaked, eyes closed and grinning like a nut. Although we’re not supposed to use that term, Larry reminded himself.
“Time for your medication.” Larry placed the early edition in front of him. The newspaper lay flat on the sheet in the space where Tom’s legs used to be. “Senior Fozzy needs his spray bottle back.”
“Give him my meds,” Tom still clutched the plastic bottle. “I’ll keep this.”
Larry shook his head. What a nut.