[Jack didn't expect haste. Christ alone knew why he'd been tracked down to the wilds of small town America but given it had been at least three years since the last, haste wasn't entirely necessary. The room in the B and B was findable, mostly because he was known for having the unpleasant animal residing in it. Bukowski had bitten at least three of the very generous older ladies who lined the corridor, for which Jack felt a grudging amount of gratitude to the beast, at least until he'd shat in Jack's shoe. But neither unpleasant circumstance was in situ. Jack sat with a copy of Oliver Twist on the springy-looking armchair in the window with a cup of tea, while the beast snored away on the counterpane.]