He lies in the middle of a large, empty cube, naked and curled tightly into a ball. The floor, walls, and ceiling all gleam dull white under the harsh lights recessed in the high ceiling. He’s in his cell. Or his recovery room. At a certain point in the process it’s the same thing.
He isn’t alone. Immediately he sits upright, turning to face the three men watching him. He knows two of them very well, and he has some history with the third. Street Ronin carries a sports bag looped over one shoulder, and Red Shift’s left arm is in a sling. They’re both out of uniform, which is unusual, but he’s pretty sure the third man—a slim, tall man, reddish-brown hair with graying temples, leaning heavily on a cane—is the reason why.
We got moved out of the house, on time, with most of our sanity intact. Whether we get our security deposit back remains to be seen - a college friend of mine was fond of saying "the security deposit is just the fee you pay for the privilege of losing your security deposit" - but we're out, in our temporary habitat, and all our stuff currently resides in 300 square feet of storage.
Next: figure out how much taxes are going to hurt.
This week I am trying to finish moving all our stuff out of our old house before our lease expires. It's going to be quite the race. This weekend I managed to get impressively sick, apparently as a result of drinking a cup of day-old coffee. This week will be hectic and expensive and I'm not looking forward to it at all.