Another long sip of coffee. He must have dozed, because the next thing he knew, the lights were flickering on and he was mostly naked, on the floor, staring up into Brautigan’s face. The old man ran a palm over the boy’s eyes, closing them. Michael Poole, fool that he was, reached up a gloved monkey-curious hand to touch it, but Miriam restrained him.
“A leopard, maybe?” she said. For a moment, the crocodile was frozen in midleap, the red spot clearly showing on his neck. Somebody wanted to milk the fun out hurting him. “So did he ever talk about Wade?” says Pete.
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