George smirked. “Actually, I am a little thirsty.”Alison minced her way nursing the fragile flame from a candle. When she left the room, George le...ned over to where his backpack sat next to the couch, silently retracted its zipper enough to slide his hand inside.Sheets of rain fell outside and the humid wind strained through crevices in the old, drafty structure as Alison groped in the dimly lit closet for a towel. It looked increasingly likely that this black man, a practical stranger, would. I could just start to barely move. It hurt so much. I looked down to my wounded arm. It looked to be worsening. I was cold. Breaking through my aching muscles, I reached down to my feet and pulled my blanket over me. I would do something in the morning. I was still tired. It was too painful to move.I woke up. Eleven in the afternoon. I was getting worse. I was getting thirsty. I had to use the bathroom. I could barely move.Someone was knocking on my front door. I could hear the faint pounds. More

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