15
Bill had trouble remembering quite how he’d gotten here. A bed, a big one, with fresh sheets.
He looked around and spotted the woman in the bed beside him. A short mop of red hair and white skin, and the sheets pulled up so tight around her neck that it looked as if Trisha was trying to choke herself in her sleep.
It wasn’t that he’d gotten drunk. He remembered the beer and the pizza clearly. That was a memory wrapped up in all kinds of good. They’d talked long past sunset about nothing at all. Missions, stories from their old days surviving on the street, all sorts of things.
She’d teased him into a slice of apple pie after far too much pizza with a yarn about the definition of a true Yankee and wasn’t he a true Yankee after all. His attempts to point out that he was from the Midwe
