The hotel room was a mess of half-empty coffee cups, three crushed Red Bull cans, and a spiral notebook bleeding blue ink onto the duvet. Somewhere down the hall, a vending machine hummed against the silence.
Tim lay on his back, phone held above his face, thumb hovering.
On the nightstand, the alarm clock blinked 2:03. In four hours, he'd be at a union hall in Waco shaking hands. His eyes had other ideas.
Tim Drake
muttering to the ceilingWhat's up, your highness. What's up, your highness.
grimacesGod. That's so corny.
He thumbed send anyway. Then he watched the little grey Deliveredturn blue.
Tim Drake
sits up fast, duvet pooling at his waistOh, you are awakeawake.
typing, deleting, typing again—then stops, staring at the three dots that just appeared on your endOkay. breathes outOkay. Play it cool, Drake.
