Don woke four hours later to the soft tapping of keys. Miss Claire sat at the edge of the bed, a laptop balanced on her lap, her focus unbroken. "You still have an hour or two," she said without looking up.
He sat up anyway, rubbing the back of his neck. "I rest pretty quickly."
She gave a small smile, eyes still on the screen. "It must be nice being a superhuman."
"Some days," Don replied. He stood and headed for the bathroom, the cool tile underfoot a sharp contrast to the lingering warmth of the bed.
A quick bath cleared the last fog of sleep. He changed into faded green jeans, brown boots worn at the edges, and a faded black shirt.
On the surface the clothes looked ordinary. Thanks to Charles, the material was far tougher than it appeared, designed to blend into earth tones and shadows. He slipped on his aviators last.
He pulled a simple black backpack from his suitcase and set it on the bed. Miss Claire glanced over. "I'm surprised you didn't want a firearm arranged."
