Joshua looked at the blood on his hands where he had touched his forehead. “I don’t know. It doesn’t hurt that badly, but I can’t tell.” “Inside,” I said, helping him to his feet and through the door of the inn. “Shut the door,” the innkeeper shouted as the wind whipped through the room. “Were you born in a barn?” “Yeah,” said Joshua. “He was,” I said. “Angels on the roof, though.” “Shut the damn door,” said the innkeeper.
