“Wiley, what the hell?” Jackson said in an increasingly worried voice. “I told you not to cook anything!”
I struggled to my feet, my knee throbbing with shrill, insistent pain that I valiantly tried to pretend did not hurt.
“I can explain,” I stammered.
“We really would like to examine Noah,” Miss Susan said. “Why isn’t he dressed? Seems you would have made sure he was prepared for a visit such as this. Do you mind if we go to his room and see if he’s all right?”
“We’re required to show you around at our convenience,” Jackson said tightly, “and when it’s convenient, we’ll do just that. Would you like to sit down on the sofa?”
“He looked like he had blood on his face,” Miss Susan countered.
“It was tomato sauce!” Jackson shot back. “Now would you please like to sit down?”
“I believe I’d like to have a look around,” Miss Susan said. “That iswhy we are here, Mr. Jackson.”