Marlowe
Preacher, freshly returned and easing back into his usual routine after the whole ordeal with Sable, insisted on checking me over the following morning anyway, unconvinced by my repeated assurances that the dizziness had been nothing more than an empty stomach and too little sleep.
"Vitals are fine," he said, gruff as ever, though something considerably gentler had crept into his manner since the truth about his own daughter had come out. "You've been running on adrenaline and not much else for weeks straight, Marlowe. Body's allowed to protest eventually. Eat properly, sleep properly, and it'll sort itself out."
"Told you it was nothing," I said, glancing at King, who'd hovered through the entire examination with visible, protective concern.
"Better safe," he said, unrepentant
