The next day at noon, Dane pounded on his door. “It’s Dane. Open the door.”
“Go away. I’m sick.”
“You sound it. Which is exactly why I’m holding a thermos of homemade hot chicken soup and a loaf of freshly baked bread from Carver’s.”
“I’ve phoned Celeste. She’s coming this afternoon.”
“Open this door now or I’ll break a window and let myself in.”
The deadbolt turned, and Bear stood in the doorway. Dane stepped past him into the hall, where he wrapped an arm around his shoulder and hugged him. “How’s the cough?”
“Better—” Bear tried to say more, but coughed instead.
“Hmm. I’m not so sure.”
He studied his friend, at the solid, perfectly proportioned body dressed in green-and-black plaid pajama bottoms and a white knit top, and pain swept through him. “I hate to tell you this, but you
