Dzinski kicked in the door.
He felt a dull throb from his toes halfway up his thigh. He panted. He tried to look stoic. He realized that had become difficult. Catching his breath, he walked in, a slight limp in his right leg. He elbowed the door closed, or as much it was going to get. The kitchen was the first opening on his right.
He walked in and opened the refrigerator, dropped a handful of ice into a tumbler and filled the rest with rye.
Dzinski drank it slowly, savoring it on his tongue and felt a little better.