Marlowe
Wrench's recovery progressed steadily over the following days, his color returning, his usual gruff humor creeping back into every conversation despite Preacher's repeated, increasingly exasperated insistence that he actually rest properly instead of arguing about it constantly.
"I want to see the garage," he announced one morning, barely a week into his recovery, already trying to swing his legs over the side of the bed before Preacher physically intervened.
"Absolutely not. You had a heart attack, not a scraped knee." Preacher's voice carried the particular exasperated patience of a man who'd clearly had this exact argument multiple times already that morning alone. "You need at least another week of proper rest before I'll even consider letting you near that garage."
"Garage
