"What did you do to him?"
"Shut up!"
"Why is he unconscious?"
"Shut up!"
"He was fine before!"
"I swear to God, Tom, if you don't shut your mouth now, I'll put you back into a coma and never wake you up again!"
Finally, the annoying tumor of my wife stopped talking. Yet, the situation hasn't gone any better.
I can't seem to figure out what causes Luther's flower to wilt.
Any form of excitement, fear or strong emotion causes him to convulse uncontrollably. And I—
I can't figure it out.
Since we got here, at another one of my residences, Luther's state did nothing but worsen.
I thought the ranch where we are staying would be a good scenery change for him.
The small house stands alone at the far end of the ranch.
Trees block it from view. A dirt road leads up to it.
The wood is old but strong. The roof holds steady in the wind.
No cars pass by.
No neighbors are near.
Birds call from the trees.
