It was past bedtime.
Salvar looked at the clock beside his bed.
11:35 p.m.
The afternoon nap had made a independent decision on his behalf, which was that sleeping tonight was no longer an option and overthinking was a more productive use of his time.
And the fractured hand added his concern because the one position was too wrong and other was too uncomfortable. It was difficult to find a good position to sleep with a plaster hand.
His brain, having assessed the situation, had elected to replay everything instead.
The meeting that he had attended. What more he could have said.
Or Silas laughing in the car, unexpected and making him wonder if he would ever see him laugh again.
OR the moment earlier when he had been attempting to put his pants on one-handed with moderate dignity and Milo had opened the door, assessed the scene, and laughed.
Just laughed and left Salvar embarrassed.
