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So. Elation departed in haste. And dear God. Here it was. Whatever it happened to be. There on the carpet. Evidence that his inner Elvis had surely left the building.
And now, next door, as if feeling his misery in the ether, the demoniac started up for the day. No you don’t, she said through the thin wall. No, you won’t. Never!
No, he muttered bitterly. Probably not.
He was hungry.
He poured himself a bowl of muesli and champed away penitently, not taking his eyes from the stain. Nah, that wasn’t urine. But if he was wrong, on a February day like this, his sanctuary would soon reek like a Marseilles pissoir.
After two spoonfuls of Swiss chaff he gagged and conceded defeat. He required an improper breakfast.
Regardless.
Immediately.
Excerpted from Eyrie by Tim Winton. Copyright © 2014 by Tim Winton. Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus & Giroux. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Judge a man by his questions rather than by his answers.
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