“Come on, get up. I’ll buy you breakfast.”
Coyote stood up and walked across the bedroom, leaning in the door frame. His cousin rose reluctantly, an eternity before he got out of bed. When Coyote heard the shower running, he puffed his cheeks and exhaled.
Drapes closed tight, little temples of torn pictures and letters, clothes thrown everywhere, ashtrays piled high, and enough bottles to double the stained glass windows of St. Anthony’s. He’d arrived fifteen minutes after getting the call, expecting the worst. They’d moved through most of that, and he hoped bacon and eggs would do the rest.
(900th post here. Pretty neat.)