Joe had quick hands. Had. Running a brush across a piece of thick paper in slow, jerky lines, he gritted his teeth. Painting was good for him, part of his rehab. He sighed. He had worked hard for an obscure skill set.

They’ll be back, he thought, with work.

His wrist flicked, causing a dark red line to streak abstract shapes. He was dabbing at the red haphazardly when a shadow blocked his light. He heard a click as something cold was pressed into his back.

“Hi, Joe,” a familiar voice said.

“Hey there.”

“How’ve you been?”

“Alright… though the broken hands have been a bitch.”

“Looks like you got over that.”

“Kinda.”

“Where is it, Joe?”

“Really? Why?” The small, cold thing wedged hard into his back. He swallowed. “Kitchen, top of the fridge.”

“Thanks.” Something hit his head and the world went black.

He woke to the stench of wet paint fumes. His head pounded as he sat up. His face had smeared his shapes and the red was everywhere. Next to his brushes were four loose keys.

“Shit.”