Digger Graves awoke in one of the upper berths in the cramped little ward compartment. He was bucking a massive dose of sedation, but he vaguely realized that there was something that he had to do, something that he had to say.
“Bub? Hey, Bub?”
“I’m here,” a blurry voice responded from the curtained berth beneath him.
“How you doing?”
“If you must know, I feel like shit.”
Unsteadily, Graves lifted his arm over the bunk-edge rail and extended it down toward Bubbles’s voice. After a moment, a smaller hand clasped his with a brief, tight grip.
“We made it, Bub.”
“Yeah.”
“Know what else?”
“What?”
“I’m staying in.”
“I knew you would.”
“Yeah.” The haze was closing in again, and Graves struggled to keep the words put together. Woozily, he grinned up at the overhead. “It only makes sense, Bub … I mean, if I get out, where am I going to find this kind of job security again?”
“Digger.”
“Yeah.”
“Will you please shut the hell up.”