The coffee splashed out over her platinum hair and powder-blue dress
that looked white when the neon was azure, purple when it was amber.
The coffee stained and soiled and ruined, and I was fiercely glad,
unreasonably happy.
I tore the gun away from her by the short barrel, not letting my filthy
hands touch her scrubbed pink ones.
I pointed the gun generally at her and backed around the _thing_ on the
floor to the cot. Doc had a pulse, but it was irregular. I checked for
a fever and there wasn't one. After that, I didn't know what to do.