Eyes shifting warily from side to side, he crossed the street, and proceeded home. He no longer thought of death, except to fear it. As soon as he was inside, he poured himself a more than generous drink. Oddly, Tansy had set out soda and ice. He mixed the highball and gulped it down.
So he had been given two weeks? Two weeks in which to pick his life slowly apart, savor each stage of doom, before he should walk again the narrow corridor at the end of which a truck was always rumbling by.
Anger surged in him at the idea.
But perhaps that was what he was supposed to do—get angry.
He mixed himself another drink, took a gulp, then looked at it doubtfully.
Perhaps that was part of the plan, too.
Tansy came in, carrying a bundle. Her face was smiling and a little flushed. With a sigh of relief she set down the bundle and pushed aside the dark bangs from her forehead.
"Whew, what a sweltering day. I thought you'd be wanting a drink. Here, let me finish that one for you."
When she put down the glass there was only ice in it. "There, now we're blood brothers or something. Mix yourself another."