Cane

Nicholas sat at the edge of the cot in his sparse room, his hands resting casually on his lap. His broken ankle, bandaged and propped up on a stack of books, was a reminder—dragged up the institute’s narrow stairs for this relentless interrogation, as if he were some hardened criminal. Now, they had come again, pressing him for answers about Lee Martin’s death, but Nicholas had his own ideas about how this would go. “A cane,” Nicholas said, leaning back slightly and gesturing toward his injured leg. “You’ve made me hobble around like a fool, dragging myself up and down these stairs. If you want information, I want a cane.”

The investigators stared at him, bewildered. “A cane?”

“Yes, a cane. Something practical. Sturdy,” Nicholas added, a sly grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

They looked at each other as if to confirm that they were both hearing the same absurd demand. One of them sighed heavily. “Fine. We’ll get you a cane."

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