“So, how do you feel about coffee?”
Zedekiah gave Mikkey a bland look. She already knew the answer to that question.
“Ah, heh…” The barista gave the blond a sheepish look, scrubbing a hand through the poof that her early-morning curls had become. “Right. Amnesia. No experience. Well. Thankfully, you’re about to get the experience of first-rate French press. Brace yourself.”
Ten minutes and a flurry of flitting around the kitchen later, the two sat at the kitchen bar, a mug of steaming French press in front of each of them, along with a bowl of instant apple-cinnamon oatmeal and a banana
Her lips quirked, chestnut eyes narrowed in a flat stare. She flipped the ID card over one knuckle, over the next, and then snatched it between her thumb and forefinger.
“So you didn’t even bother to check your own wallet?”
He failed to meet her stare, his dark-eyed gaze drifting sideways and down to the floor.
“How long has it been since you lost your memories?”
Mikkey winced and puffed out a sigh. “Well, alright, that explains a lot.” She managed to look embarrassed, but not exactly apologetic. “So your driver
“To sleep--perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.”
--Hamlet, Act III, scene 1
The darkness was absolute. There was no earth, though he could feel something solid beneath his feet. There was no sky. There was no light, no Light, whatsoever, or else his cat’s eyes would have caught it and refracted it twentyfold.
Darkness didn’t work that way. It flashed through Van’s mind that he might be dreaming, but the notion flew from his mind the moment he heard that voice behind him.