position, and was rewarded with wide-eyed looks of apparent delight at his effort. At least that's what it appeared from what he could see of their downturned faces as they bobbed up and down, bowing before hurriedly leaving.
He managed only a few bites of the dinner. Wearily, he went to the bathroom, grabbed a towel and went into the bedroom to wrestle the bed back to a horizontal position and then wedged the towel into the bed's mechanism to steady it and keep it from tilting forward or backward. As he did so, he once again regretted that the draft that came through his quarters made sleeping on the floor next to impossible.
He went to bed and found, as usual, that as tired as he was, he could not fall asleep. In fact, he was now wide awake. He sat back up, but the motion jostled the bed enough that the towel slipped from the mechanism. The bed slowly clicked up to a forty-five-degree angle and Sinclair slid off to his feet. He pushed the bed back to the horizontal position. He bent down, stuck his hand under the bed, grabbed the towel and tried to yank it back into the right place. He had tried many different objects for securing the mechanism into the right position, but the towel worked best. Usually.
He tugged and pulled on the towel, reaching further in. Without warning, the towel slipped and with a click, click, click the metal gears began to grind over his hand. Sinclair yanked his hand back and let out a creative stream of invective. Then with clenched teeth, he shook off the pain and tried once more, this time with success.
That battle over, hopefully for the night, but now more awake then ever, he went over to the chest, opened it, took out the bottle of whiskey, and poured himself one shot.
He was not a big drinker, but neither did he begrudge