Chapter 6

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When he wasn’t on the road, his nightly ritual took about forty-five minutes. More so when he had to prepare for his weekly injection, which involved filling a syringe, cleaning a spot on his thigh, and then sticking himself. He accomplished that annoying task first in order to get it out of the way.

After, Dakota took his pills—two for the M.S., a sedative for the shaking, and a multivitamin—he brushed and flossed his teeth, washed his face with cold water, and stripped down to a T-shirt and boxers. He double-checked to ensure that his door was locked before turning on the lucid-dreaming talisman. He felt worn-out from two missions in a row. Exhaustion overcame him much easier now.

In a perfect world, he would take care of himself better. Eat right. Sleep well. And always take his medicine on time. But concealing his disease meant that occasionally he had to bend the rules, hiding his pills, acting like the tremors were just nervousness or fatigue. Lying, even to Ken.