He had five hours and eleven minutes now. He rubbed the air-dried leather of his tongue against the roof of his mouth and scratched his elbow. Blinked.
Four hours and three minutes. "I should get a drink," he said to the ceiling.
Three hours and thirty-three minutes. He got a drink. And paused to appreciate the synchronicity of the numbers on his digital watch face.
When he had three hours and four minutes left, he tapped his fingers against his sheets and cleared his throat. He closed his eyes tightly and begged the shadows in his room for sleep and opened them to the sun glaring through the blinds in his window. He coughed his surprise and looked at his watch: 6:54
"Hm," he said aloud, staring at the numbers another moment. "Shit!" he said louder.
He jumped into his jeans and ran out the front door of the apartment complex, lugging his bike behind him. He flung his weight on the seat and pounded down the street, pedals and chain screaming their protests.
***TO BE CONTINUED***
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