“Tell me again why I have a beaten up Noah on my futon?” Ava said. She indeed had a beaten-up Noah resting on her couch, bandages and gauze over his nose, an icepack on his brow.
Wiz, Hal, and Travis sat around him, cups of coffee and homemade croissants steaming on the table. Ava stood with her hands on her hips, her brow expressing a pressing need for answers.
“I got beaten up,” Noah said, sounding like he had the worst head cold in history.”