Текст книги "The King"

Автор книги: J. R. Ward

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 39 страниц)

Come to think of it, he’d been angry when she’d first arrived that night. To the point where halfway through the four courses, she’d considered leaving.

Hardly the all-perfect that nostalgia repainted it as.

“You’re right, Tohr.”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “You know, it’s not too late. You can still come back if you leave now.”

“I don’t have to worry about the sun, remember.”

She could practically feel his shudder through her cell phone. “I got nothing to say to that. I really don’t.”

Taking pity on him, she changed the subject by promising to take care of herself and come home at nightfall.

After hanging up, she stretched out on her father’s bed. Staring at the ceiling, she imagined Darius having done the same thing during the day—sometimes with Wrath right across the hall in the other chamber.

Wrath had been a real recluse before meeting her. He’d fought alone, slept alone, and most certainly had nothing to do with the whole throne thing: Until he’d mated her, he’d refused to rule.

She couldn’t count the number of times people had thanked her for bringing him around—like her love was some magic potion that had turned a beast into … well, if not a completely civilized kind of guy, at least someone who was willing to live up to his responsibilities.

Had he really just gone for a snooze?

Then again, when was the last time he’d actually slept through the day? Not since before he’d been shot at.

Just before her eyes fluttered shut, she sat herself up and turned to the security alarm pad that was mounted by her head. Punching the proper code in, she armed things and then got horizontal again.

The eight-digit set of numbers? Her birth date, month, day, and year.

Another example of how, way before she had come into this vampire world, her father had been thinking of her: V might have been the one to install the state-of-the-art equipment and keep it all up-to-date, but Darius had chosen the code years ago.

Reaching over and clicking the light off, she resettled on top of the duvet.

Moments later, she was back at the lamp, turning it on again.

When you were without your husband, perfectly safe was relative.

TWENTY-TWO

Sola couldn’t remember ever being so cold.

Wrapped up in a sleeping bag, with heating vents pile-driving BTUs into her face, she couldn’t stop shivering in the back of the Range Rover.

Then again, there were a half dozen good reasons to be in shock, the kind that started with your head and put your body in a numb deep freeze.

Shifting her position, her thigh let out a scream—reminding her that there was also a physical imperative at work. How much blood had she lost?

“We are almost there.”

Her head turned at the sound of that accented voice. Even though there was almost no light in the SUV, she could picture Assail’s face as if it were spotlit: deeply set eyes the color of moonlight, slashing dark brows, full lips, hard jaw. The widow’s peak and the jet-black hair.

Between one blink and the next, there was blood on the lower half of it … and very sharp teeth.

Or had that been a nightmare? She was having trouble figuring out what was reality.

She opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out. “My head … not working right.”

“It’s all okay.” As if on impulse, he reached out to her, but then dropped his hand like he didn’t know what to do.

Sola struggled to swallow, her mouth dry. “More water? Please?”

He moved so fast, it was like he’d been waiting for a chance to do something. And as he cracked another Poland Spring bottle open, she went to push the sleeping bag away to free her hands—and got trapped. The nylon fabric seemed to weigh as much as a coating of asphalt.

“Be still,” he said softly. “Let me serve you.”

“My hands aren’t working.”

“I know.” He brought the open neck to her mouth. “Drink.”

Easier said than done. Her teeth started to chatter. “Sorry,” she mumbled as water went everywhere.

“Ehric, how long,” he snapped.

The Range Rover came to an abrupt stop. “I believe we’re here—or somewhere.”

Sola frowned as she looked over the shoulder of the driver in front of her. The rickety fence in the headlights was the kind of thing you’d see on a cattle farm—that had been deserted. Half of it was hanging at an angle, the old boards and rusted wire more tangle than organized form.

“Where are we going?” she asked hoarsely. “I thought … back home.”

“We’re getting you treated first.” Assail repeated that thing where he reached out a hand and then put it back down before touching her. “You need … you’re wounded and we can’t let your grandmother see you like this.”

“Oh. Right.” Jesus, she’d forgotten she was half-naked, injured, and needed a good, long shower. “Thank you.”

“Surely this cannot be it,” the driver muttered.

Assail glanced out the windshield, and glared—as if things weren’t what he expected, either. “Go up to that box.”

As they approached what appeared to be a wooden birdhouse on a rickety stick, the driver put his window down—

A gruff, disembodied voice spoke out of the thing: “I gotchu. Go through the gates.”

Like magic, the “distressed” gating system split right down the middle, moving apart smoothly and silently.

The road beyond was snow-packed but tended to. And some distance later they came to another barrier. This one was less flimsy, and taller, too, made of chain links that were rusty, and yet seemed solidly affixed to their posts. This time, they didn’t have to stop—the fencing split before them, letting them pass through.

And so it went.

As they progressed, the gating systems became ever newer and more imposing until they came up to something that looked like it belonged in a government installation: Concrete pylons as big as the ones under Caldwell’s bridges anchored a solid metal panel the size of a billboard. And stretching off in either direction? A twenty-foot-tall wall that had barbed wire up top and warnings to trespassers every ten feet.

Kinda Jurassic-parky, Sola thought.

“Impressive,” the driver drawled.

As with the other entries, the way was opened before they could halt at the obvious check-in point, with its keypad, speaker, and monitoring equipment.

“Is this … an army base?” Sola mumbled.

Maybe Assail was an undercover cop—in which case … “Do I need a lawyer?” she demanded.

“For what?” Assail stayed focused on whatever was coming up, staring out the front windshield like he was driving the vehicle.

“Are you going to arrest me?”

His head whipped around, his brows down low. “Whatever are you talking about?”

Sola relaxed back into the seat. If he was lying, he deserved an Oscar. And if he wasn’t—well, maybe this was God’s way of answering her prayer: One sure solution for keeping her out of the life was to throw her into the court system.

The underground tunnel they entered was worthy of a Lincoln or a Holland with its fluorescent lighting and yellow line down the middle, and the descent tilted the Range Rover forward at an aggressive angle.

“Are we in Caldwell?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Assail eased back, and in the now-abundant lighting, she saw him duck his right hand into his parka.

Sola frowned. “Are you … why are you palming a weapon?”

“I trust no one with you other than myself.” He turned to her. “And I made a promise to your grandmother. You shall be returned to her unharmed, and I am a male of my word. At least in this.”

As she met his eyes, she had the oddest sensation settle into her chest. Part of it was fear, and that confused her. With the situation she’d been in, her savior had better be packing a forty and prepared to use it.

The other half of it was … not anything she wanted to look too closely at.

The tunnel terminated in a parking facility that reminded her of the one underneath the Caldwell Arena: shallow ceiling, plenty of spaces, the rising elevation that disappeared around a corner suggesting multiple floors.

“Where are we?” she asked as they pulled up to a closed door.

By way of an answer, the thing was thrown wide and a medical team came out, doctors, nurses, gurney and all.

“Thank the Virgin Scribe,” Assail muttered.

Oh … shit. The white coats weren’t alone—they were accompanied by three huge men: a blond with a face that belonged on the big screen, a military guy with a brush cut and an expression hard as a butcher’s block, and then a truly terrifying backup who had a skull trim and a scar that ran across his cheek and curved into the side of his mouth.

No, this was not the U.S. government.

Not unless there was a covert hard-ass department.

Assail reached for the door. “Stay in the car.”

“Don’t go,” Sola blurted.

He glanced back at her. “Be not afraid. They owe me this.”

Her savior reached out again, and this time he didn’t stop himself. He brushed her jaw so lightly that if she hadn’t seen him do it, she wouldn’t have noticed.

“Stay.”

And then he was gone, the door shutting solidly. Through the tinted glass, she watched as a fourth man came out of the brightly lit hallway. Yeah, that was no accountant over there … With a floor-length fur duster and a cane, he was dressed like an old-school pimp, his cropped Mohawk and sardonic smile fitting the image perfectly.

The man and Assail offered each other their hands at exactly the same moment. And they stayed linked as they exchanged words—

Something was wrong. Assail started to frown; then looked downright pissed. But as the Mohawked man shrugged and seemed unmoved, Assail finally turned over his weapon and was patted down for his others. And only after his men got out and subjected themselves to the same treatment did the pimp nod at the team of doctors and nurses to go over to the vehicle.

As they reached out to open her door, a spike of fear had Sola pull the sleeping bag right to her chin—

The woman who stuck her head into the backseat was handsome, with short blond hair and dark green eyes. “Hi, I’m Doc Jane. I’d like to take a look at you, if you’ll let me.”

Her voice was level. Kind. Calm.

Yet Sola couldn’t move or respond.

At least not until Assail appeared behind the doctor. “It’s okay, Marisol. She’s going to take care of you.”

Sola found herself staring into his eyes for the longest moment. When she was satisfied with what she saw, she whispered, “Okay. Okay…”

And that was when her trembling finally stopped.

Assail was not happy about his empty holsters, but Rehv had made it clear: Either he and his cousins went in unarmed, or the human female was not going to be treated.

It was the only circumstance in which Assail would have consented to be vulnerable and he hated it. But needs must.

“And her name is Marisol,” he heard himself say as the blond, female doctor began to speak in low tones. “Sola.”

From over on the left, he could feel Rehv staring at him, and the Council’s leahdyre wasn’t the only one. The three Brothers on guard duty were too professional to show anything, but he could tell they were wondering why he’d turned up on their doorstep with a human woman. Who was injured. Whom he was willing to give his guns over for.

“No, you stay there, Marisol. We’ll come around to the other side.” The female doctor eased out and nodded to her team. “Vitals are low but stable. Gunshot wound to right thigh. Possible concussion. Shock’s a concern. May have suffered other trauma she doesn’t want to tell me about.”

Assail felt the blood leave his head, but he didn’t allow the inclination to pass out any further leeway—

“You,” he called out sharply. “Stay back.”

The male—or, God, was that actually a human man?—stopped short.

The main doctor, the female, spoke up. “This is my partner. Dr. Manello. He’s—”

“Not to treat her.” Assail bared his fangs. “She is unclothed from the waist down.”

He was vaguely aware that everyone had frozen and looked his way. Was also aware of a scent that had suddenly entered the scene. He lingered on neither as he stared that man down, prepared to lunge at his throat if he continued around the back of the Rover.

The guy put his hands up as if he were faced with a gun. “Okay, okay. Let’s relax. You want me out, I’m out.”

Backing up, he stood with the Brothers, shaking his head, but saying nothing.

The female doctor put her hand on Assail’s forearm. “We’re just going to get her on the gurney. Why don’t you come around with me. You can watch and stay close.”

Assail eased off on his growl and cleared his throat. “I shall do that. Thank you.”

Actually, he did more.

When the doctor opened Marisol’s door, he hated the way his woman shrank back before she could catch herself. And then her eyes locked on his.

“Would you like me to help you out?” he asked roughly before any of the medical staff could move in.

“Yes. Please.”

It felt so right to push everyone away and be the male who cared for her: Reaching into the SUV’s interior, he scooped her into his arms, being careful to take the sleeping bag along with so that she was not exposed—

The hiss she tried to hold in made him nauseous, but he had to get her out—and once he straightened, she seemed to find an accommodation in his arms that didn’t cause her too much discomfort.

Her head fell against his shoulder and stayed there.

“I shall carry her in,” he informed the doctor.

“It’s probably better to—ah, okay, all right.” The blond healer put her hands up as his fangs flashed again. “That’s fine. Just follow me.”

The Brother Rhage was the first into the corridor, and the other two warriors hung back, bringing up the rear along with the cousins.

Assail walked as smoothly as he could, each stiffening of Marisol’s limbs or sharp inhale communicating her pain directly into his own chest until it was his lungs burning, his breath catching, his leg that ached.

Going along, they passed by a seemingly endless number of rooms, some of which he looked into, most of which he didn’t bother turning his head for. From what little he noticed, there were classrooms, an office that was empty … something that looked like an interrogation room. Just as he was becoming convinced they were heading for another zip code, the female doctor finally stopped and indicated the way into an examination room.

The gurney in the center was directly underneath a hanging set of lights, and as he went over and began to transfer Marisol onto the sheeted, padded surface, he was glad the healer didn’t turn the chandelier on. It seemed far too bright already in the tiled room, the stainless-steel and glass cabinetry glinting at him, the rolling table with its instruments a threat even though those tools were supposed to help in the right hands.

Dearest Virgin in the Fade, Sola’s face was gray from pain and exhaustion as she sat there, her knees up tight to her chest, that navy blue sleeping bag wrapped tight as a second skin around her.

“I’m going to ask all nonessentials to stay out in the hall,” the doctor said, shooing the Brothers, the cousins, and that male healer out. “No, nope—we’ll be fine. Right, bye-bye.” Then in a lower tone, she hissed, “He’s a bonded male. You want to deal with that if I have to do an internal exam on her?”

Bonded … male? Him?

As the Brothers began to argue with her, Assail nodded grimly at the warriors and Rehvenge. “There shall be no problems from me. You have my word.”

Except then he wondered if Marisol’s privacy didn’t also deserve protecting from the likes of him.

“Marisol,” he said softly. “Mayhap it would be best if I—”

“Stay.”

He closed his eyes. “All right.”

Going over to her head, he turned his back on her body so she could return eye contact with his face, but he could see nothing that would compromise her privacy.

The doctor stepped in close to her and spoke softly. Kindly. “If you could lie back, that would be great. If you don’t feel safe, I understand, and I’ll put the top of the bed up for you.”

There was a long silence. “What was your name again?” Marisol asked roughly.

“Jane. I’m Jane. Behind me is my nurse, Ehlena. And nothing is going to happen here that you don’t consent to, okay? You are in charge.”

Indeed, he had a feeling he was going to like this physician.

“Okay. All right.” Marisol grabbed his hand and eased back, grimacing until she was fully prone. “Okay.”

He expected her to let go once she was settled. She did not—and her eyes didn’t budge from his. Not as the healer unwrapped the sleeping bag and covered her with a blanket. Not as questions about a possible concussion were asked, and reflexes tested. Not as that thigh wound was poked and prodded at. Not even as a portable X-ray machine was brought over and a picture taken from several different angles.

“So I have all kinds of good news,” the doctor said a little later as she approached with a laptop. On its monitor, there was the shadowy image of Marisol’s thick, strong thighbone. “Not only is your concussion mild, the bullet passed cleanly through. There’s no evidence that the bone is broken or chipped. So our main issue is the risk of infection. I’d like to clean things out thoroughly—and give you some antibiotics as well as some pain meds. Sound good?”

“I’m fine,” Marisol cut in.

The doctor laughed as she put the laptop aside. “I swear you fit in here so well. That’s what all my patients tell me. Still, I respect your intelligence—and I know that you’re not going to want to put your health at risk. What I’m worried about is sepsis—you told me in the car that you were shot twenty-four hours ago. That’s a long time for things to get cooking in there.”

“Let us see this through, Marisol,” Assail heard himself say. “Let us take the advice given.”

Marisol closed her eyes. “Okay.”

“Good, good.” The doctor made some notes on the laptop. “There’s just one other thing.”

“What?” Assail asked, when there was a lengthy pause.

“Marisol, I need to know if there’s anywhere else you might have been hurt.”

“Anywhere … else?” came a mumbled response.

Assail could feel the doctor staring at him. “Would you mind excusing us for a minute?”

Before he could answer, Marisol squeezed his hand so hard, he winced. “No,” she said stiffly. “Nowhere else.”

The doctor cleared her throat. “You can tell me anything, you know. Anything that is pertinent to your treatment.”

Abruptly, Marisol’s body started trembling again—the way it had in the backseat of the Range Rover. In a rush, like she was ripping something off her skin, she said, “He tried to rape me. It didn’t happen. I got him first—”

All at once, the sounds in the room receded. The idea—no, the reality—that someone had mistreated her, hurt her, scarred her precious body, tried to …

“Are you okay?” someone asked. The nurse. It must be the—

“He’s going over!” the doctor barked.

Assail wondered about whom they were speaking … as he lost consciousness.

TWENTY-THREE

“Speak, healer,” Wrath demanded as he stood over the motionless body of his shellan. “Speak!”

Dearest Virgin Scribe, she looked dead.

Indeed, immediately following his Anha’s collapse, he had carried her back to their mated room, the Brothers going with him, the aristocrats and their worthless social gaming left behind. It was he who had laid his beloved out upon the bedding platform as the healer was summoned, and he who had been the one to loosen her bodice. The Brothers had departed as soon as the trusted physician arrived with the tools of his healing trade, and then it had been only the three of them, the crackling fire, and the scream that rebounded in his soul.

“Healer, what say thou?”

The male looked over his shoulder from his crouch beside Anha. With the black robes of his station flowing to the floor, he rather resembled a giant bird, imminently due to take flight.

“She is dangerously compromised, my lord.” As Wrath recoiled, the healer rose. “I believe she is with young.”

A cold draft hit him, rushing from his head to his feet, wiping out the feeling in his entire form. “She is…”

“With young. Aye. I could tell when I felt her belly. It is hard and distended, and you did say she recently was upon her needing.”

“Yes,” he whispered. “So this is caused by the—”

“’Tis not a symptom of early pregnancy as she is not bleeding. No, I do believe this malaise is accounted for by something different. Please, my lord, let us approach the fire to speak so as not to disturb her.”

Wrath allowed himself to be drawn closer to the banked flames. “Is she ill then with fever?”

“My lord…” The healer cleared his throat, as if mayhap he was worried about a death that had naught to do with the queen. “Forgive me, my lord…”

“Tell me not that you have no explanation,” Wrath hissed.

“Would you prefer I mislead you? Her heart is sluggish, her pallor is gray, her breathing is shallow and intermittent. There could be some internal difficulty that I cannae measure that she is succumbing to. I do not know.”

Wrath shifted his eyes back to his mate. He had never been one to feel fear o’ermuch. Now terror slipped into his skin, possessing him as an evil spirit would, taking him o’er.

“My lord, I would tell you to feed her. Now and for as often as she may take the proceeds of your vein. Mayhap the charge of energy that comes with it with turn this about … certainly, if she has any hope, it is you. And if she rouses, I shall give her fresh water only, no ale. Nothing that will cause a further depression of her systems—”

“Get out.”

“My lord, she is—”

“Leave us—now!”

Wrath was aware of the male stumbling to the door. And well the healer might—a murderous rage was risen in the chest of his King and liable to be directed upon any bodily form within reach.

As the door was shut once more, Wrath approached the bedding platform. “My love,” he said desperately. “Anha, my love, rise unto my voice.”

Back on his knees.

Wrath fell back upon his knees at the floor by her head. Stroking her hair upon her shoulder and down upon her arm, he was of care not to put any weight into his touch.

Measuring her breathing, he tried to will her into deeper breaths. He wanted to return to the night before, when they had awoken together and he had looked into her eyes and watched them sparkle with life. For truth, it twisted his mind to think he could remember with such specificity everything about that moment, that hour, that night, the smells of the meal they ate, and the conversations they had about the future, and the audiences they went down to take in at court.

He felt as though the clarity of the remembrances should have been a door that he could go through and thereby take her hand, and smell her scent, and feel the lightness in the heart that came with health and well-being … and pull her back to the present in that state.

But that was only fantasy, of course.

Unsheathing his ceremonial dagger, he brought the flashing, polished blade up. When his heavy sleeve with its jewels and settings of precious gold got in the way, he tore his fine coat from his torso, pitching it behind him. As it landed with a scraping sound, all those meticulously affixed gems scratching at the hard oak, he slashed the knife edge across his wrist.

Lo, he wished it was his throat.

“Anha, verily, sit up for me. Lift your head, my love.”

Propping her upon his free forearm, he brought the wellspring of his blood to her lips. “Anha, partake from me … partake for me…”

Her lips fell open, but it was not her sweet acquiescence that rendered it such. Nay, it was only the angle of her head.

“Anha, drink … come back unto me.”

As red drops fell into her mouth, he prayed that they somehow proceeded down the back of her throat, and thusly into her veins, reviving her by their purity.

This was not their destiny, he thought. They were to be together for centuries, not parted but a year after meeting. This was not … them.

“Drink, my love…”

He kept his wrist in place until the blood threatened to pool out from her lips. “Anha?”

Dropping his head down onto the back of her cold hand, he prayed for a miracle. And the longer he stayed there, the more he joined her in a state that was but one heartbeat away from death.

If she passed, he was going to go with her. One way or the other …

Dearest Virgin Scribe, this was not them.

* * *

Wrath didn’t wake up so much as surface from sleep like a buoy floating up from the depths to bounce on a choppy surface.

He was in the pitch dark of his blindness, naturally—and as always, he threw out his arm to the opposite side of the bed—

Crash!

Wrath lifted his head and frowned. Patting around with his hand, he encountered things that felt like books, a coaster, an ashtray.

Firewood burning.

He was not in his room. And Beth was not with him.

Flipping over, he jacked upright, heart skipping in his chest, the arrhythmia making him light-headed. “Beth?”

In the basement of his brain, he recognized that he was in the library downstairs in the Brotherhood mansion, but his thoughts were like worms in wet soil, twisting around incessantly, going nowhere.

“Beth …?”

A distant whimper.

“George?”

Louder whimper.

Wrath rubbed his face. Wondered where his wraparounds were. Thought, yeah, he was on that couch in the library, the one in front of the fireplace.

“Oh … fuck me…” he groaned as he tried to get vertical.

Standing up was flat-out awesome. Head swimming, stomach clenched like a fist, he had to grip the arm of the couch or he was going to timber all over the place.

Lurching through dead space, he didn’t make it to the doors so much as run into them, the hard panels punching back at his chest. Flubbering around for the handles, he popped the latches and—

George exploded into the room, the golden running around in circles, the sneezes suggesting he was smiling.

“Hey, hey…”

Wrath meant to make it back to the sofa, because he didn’t want all the functional eyes in the house seeing him like this—but his body had different ideas. And as he went down on his ass, George took the opportunity to jump right in there, getting throw-blanket close.

“Hey, big guy, yup, we’re both still here…” Stroking the retriever’s broad chest, he buried his nose into that fur and let the scent of good, clean dog work some aromatherapy on him. “Where’s Mom? Do you know where she is?”

Dumb fucking question. She was not here, and it was his own damn fault.

“Shit, George.”

That big tail was banging against his ribs, and that muzzle was snuffling, and those ears were flapping around. And it was good, it was normal—but it didn’t go nearly far enough.

“Wonder what time it is?”

Goddamn … he’d lost it at John and V but good, hadn’t he. And that hadn’t been the half of it. He had some vague memory of trashing the billiards room, flipping all kinds of shit, fighting with anyone who got too close—then it had been nap time. He was pretty sure someone had drugged him, and he couldn’t say he blamed whoever had done it. Short of a tranq-induced lights-out, he didn’t know when he would have stopped.

And he hadn’t wanted to hurt any of his brothers or the staff. Or the house.

“Shit.”

Seemed like that was the extent of his vocabulary.

Man, he should have let Vishous take him in here and tell him what was going on. But at least there were only two places his mate would go. One was Marissa’s Safe Place, and the other was Darius’s old house. And no doubt that was what John had been trying to tell him.

Fuck, he thought. This was not him and Beth. This was not where they were supposed to end up.

Matter of fact, things had always felt like fate with her; from the timing of when she’d come into his life to the completion that she brought to him, everything had always seemed like destiny. They’d had arguments, sure. He was a hotheaded asshole and she didn’t take any of his shit. Duh.

But never this separation. Ever.

“Come on, bud. We need some privacy.”

George hopped off and let Wrath push himself up from the floor. After reshutting the doors, he embarked on a game of find-the-phone. Talk about your emasculations. Hands thrust forward, torso bent, feet shuffling, he bumped into things and felt them up to figure out whether it was a love seat, an armchair, a side table …

The desk seemed like the last fucking thing he ran into, and he discovered where the phone was when his man hand knocked the receiver off its cradle. Putting the thing up to his ear, he finger-tipped around until he located the buttons and then had to recock the dial tone before he could start dialing.

Picturing the ten digits with the pound sign and the star key at the base of the set-of-twelve arrangement, he punched in a seven-number sequence and waited.

“Safe Place, good afternoon.”

He closed his eyes. He’d hoped it was closer to dark because then he could go looking for her. “Hey, is Beth there?”

“No, I’m sorry, she’s not. May I take a message?” As he closed his eyes, the female said, “Hello? Is anybody there?”

“No message.”

“May I tell her who’s calling if she comes in later?”

He briefly wondered what the receptionist would do if he told her who it was. “I’ll find her elsewhere. Thanks.”

As he hung up, he felt George’s big head nudge his thigh. So typical of the dog—wanting to help.

Wrath kept his finger on the toggle, pushing down. He didn’t know if he was ready for another dial tone. If she didn’t pick up at the next number? He was going to have no fucking clue where she was. And the idea that he might have to go to Vishous or John for that kind of information was too shameful to bear.

As he punched in a different sequence, he thought to himself …

I can’t believe this is us. This just isn’t … us.