Jack wet his lips. "Almost until now," he said. "Until maybe five minutes ago." Moe backed away toward the window.
Phil felt something moving from inside, something that tortured him into movement, for he certainly didn't want to stir a muscle.
He advanced toward Moe, a shaky step, then a couple, all the while feeling the most exquisite pains racking his torso as it was sliced by imagined orthos.
"Put that cat down," he croaked.
Moe looked at him with utter boredom.
"He's just a nut," he heard Jack assure Moe in an anxious whisper. "He won't cause trouble."
"I can see he is and won't," Moe said drily, shifting the gun to the hand from which Lucky dangled.
But Phil kept on toward the towering figure. He tried to stop, but the torturer inside him wouldn't let him—and now once again the same torturer pried open his teeth and lips.
"Put him down," he repeated. "You can't have him. Nobody can." He raised his fists, but the left one wouldn't close.
Moe looked at him disgustedly. The big fist came toward Phil's jaw, very slowly. Still, there somehow wasn't enough time to get out of the way.