I’d passed out staring straight into Scrimshaw’s tortoise eyes and black bushy brows, trying to think who he looked like and how Glenn Barrett knew I was a writer (and once he knew why he told our darling Polecat boy Scumsaw to ask me for help), and how long it would be before the sheriff showed up at the door. Six simultaneous questions and ten days of stress had apparently overtaxed my fragile cerebellum, causing my head to thunk and my child to be given over to the care of strangers.
My head seemed the worse for it.
“They’re not mine,” I said, lurching toward the keys and bending for Obie just as a sledgehammer hit me square in the forehead.