Ninety-Nine Deaths

The hundredth time I opened my eyes, I was standing under the porte-cochère of the Thorne townhouse on East 73rd.

A Nor'easter was driving down the street.

Sterling's car was at the curb. He got out of the back seat with his black coat already soaked through, his face cold and exact, the kind of cold that looks like a personnel decision.

I was holding a brown paper Duane Reade bag.

This was the medication I'd run uptown for, in the first loop, with a fever of a hundred and two.