Tony
My back felt like it had been re-shaped by a medieval torture device.
The fold-out couch was less of a bed and more of a metal trap designed to pinpoint every vertebra in my spine. Every time I breathed, the springs gave a pathetic, high-pitched screak that seemed to echo in the quiet apartment. But despite the bar digging into my kidneys, I didn't move. I couldn’t. Myra was tucked into my side, her breathing deep and even, her head resting in that small hollow of my shoulder. I wasn't about to be the one to wake her up.
She’d been carrying too much lately. Between the shop, the contract and worrying about Aunt Dot in rehab, she was wired tight. That laughter last night—the delirious, near-hysterical sound she’d made when the oak frame finally surrendered to the laws of physics—was
