“He did not find himself in the custody of the Rag Dolls, starved and beaten at their pleasure. Instead he found himself on a box-spring mattress that wasn’t quite long enough for him, with his neck supported by a wilted pillow and a vase of plastic geraniums on the nightstand. “Well,” I said, “this feels familiar.” He looked up at the ceiling: the branching fractures in the plaster, the damp that stained the corners. “This place does not,” he said. His voice was exactly as I remembered it, dark... and slow, rising up from the depths of his chest. A voice that was felt as well as heard. “You’re in I-4, in a doss-house.” I struck a match. “Not exactly Magdalen, but it’s warmer than the streets.” “Indeed. Certainly warmer than the desolate tunnels of Camden.” As I lit the tall candle on the table, Warden pushed himself on to his elbows and flexed his shoulders. All the bruises had faded in the hours he’d been asleep. “What time is it?” he asked. “Four in the afternoon.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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