Using the chair by the door to keep steady, Aardvark lowered himself to the floor. He loosened the drenched shirt collar, and forced his trembling hands to work at the tight knots of his laces. He squinted against the fat drops running down his forehead, cling to the ridge of his brow and swinging into his eyes.
He dreamt of three things, a hot shower, a neat whiskey, and pulling on a pair of heavy, knitted socks.
His numb fingers couldn’t untie the knots, so he dragged his soaked body across to the bathroom and showered with his shoes on.