“Nolan Oliver, what has happened?”
It’s not until he hears the note of frank alarm in Saul – an occurrence so unusual it drags Nol a little away from the chasm in his thoughts – that he looks down at himself. Blood covers his button down shirt, a pool of it over his belly.
“Don’t worry; it’s not mine.” His tone is caught somewhere between neutrality and reassurance, distant and disconnected.
“I know.” Saul replies, assessing the man intently, voice as nondescript as ever.
“Of course you do.” Nol tries to laugh but it sounds half mad, like a child conceived by the rendezvous of a cough and sob. The man stands just inside the threshold to his home with all the appearance of someone who’s grown roots against his will.