“I’ll scream.”
“You don’t have the energy.”
“Then I’ll throw something,” I say. “Something heavy and directly at Locke’s head.”
“Now, that I believe. I also approve.”
She leaves the door open behind her, and I hear her footsteps descend the stairs. A pause, low voices, then another set of footsteps begins climbing. And Locke appears in the doorway.
He looks worse than I expected. His clothes are clean, his face freshly shaved, but exhaustion sits deep around his eyes. There’s snow on the shoulders of his coat, dark spots that melt slowly through the fabric.
He stops when he sees me. His gaze moves over my face, the water beside the bed, the bucket on the floor.
“How bad?” he rasps.
The question is so quietly Locke that my chest hurts.
“Manageable,” I say.
“That bad, then.”
I loo
