Murder at the Arlington: Chapter 23
Sleeping on a cot was worse than sleeping on the ground. At least on the ground, my pillow wouldn’t keep falling down. About two o’clock I gave up and stared at the ceiling and listened to Ruth snore. I thought about my simple life back in Austin — my pets, my little apartment, tapping away at my typewriter, working on my current assignment. Would life ever be normal again? I thought about my crazy family in Texas, my wounded cousin here in the hospital. I closed my eyes and prayed. Why me, Lord, why me? Okay, so it wasn’t a real prayer, but I didn’t expect an answer anyway.
At three I went to the cafeteria with Ruth’s magazines. The nice thing about a hospital is that it never closes, the coffee is always hot, and the younger doctors pull night duty. When I got bored with the magazines, I watched the interns file in and out. Around five, the newspapers were delivered. I refreshed my coffee and slid a dime into the newspaper rack.
The next thing I knew, a young doctor was holding my hand asking me if I was okay.
“I’ll be right back with something for that burn.”
“What?” I said.
“Your hand. You spilled your coffee and burned your hand.” He wet a napkin and wrapped it around my fingers.
“I’ll be right back.”
