"Nuthin'."
Landel offered them water from a thermos.
"I've had some ... it's okay."
Zinc drank, Dennison drank, then it went the rounds once more.
"I'm beat," Landel said.
They nodded.
That night, after grub, they slept in a handsome 17th century residence near the park, in a bedroom on the second floor, under elegant drapes, elegant table cloths, in mahogany beds: a silent place, gilded wallpaper, ormolu furniture, golden carpet. Before falling asleep, Zinc washed and scrubbed with perfumed soap in a basin painted with forget-me-nots. In his sleep he thought of his boat, an ephemeral boat, but it was his boat ... he dreamed of a wedding ceremony, people tossing rice ... his injured hand relaxed ... but his face burned and his head throbbed violently from time to time.
Landel slept uneasily in his bed, a feverish night: he had gulped down aspirin from the emergency kit, then he added codeine, a double dose in the night: tomorrow, he asked himself, tomorrow? He was unsure. How could he continue?
For Dennison it was a problem to relax: he floated on his mattress, under the layers of drapery: his subconscious was uncomfortable: he heard his mother say:
"I think we've had more snow this year than we've had for years."