It was still raining when Sebby got back to the hotel. The onslaught hadn’t even slowed; in fact, it was probably raining harder than it had been when he’d left his father’s.
Sean was sitting at lunch with Murdoch and Q when his phone started ringing. He smiled tersely at his colleagues.
It was raining when they crossed the tarmac to board the plane. The wind was bitter and blowing from the north and the rain seemed to get heavier by the minute.
Danny leaned against the washroom door, grimacing. They’d only been home for maybe an hour and he needed to get ready for the game, but he hadn’t been able to get Matt to move from the bathroom floor for the better part of forty-five minutes. He winced again; Matt had to be dry-heaving by now—he’d thrown up probably two or three times before they’d even left the hospital.
His head ached. His mouth was dry. Luke cringed, then slowly opened his eyes as pain revived him from the blissful grasp of unconsciousness. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, swallowing reflexively, letting lingering tastes and certain knowledge dissolve in the acid of his stomach.