[Jake was awake the way cats woke. Real slow and sleepy-looking and like they weren't set on being awake right off but at the same time had an ear for something strange. Something strange hung around Jake's dreams with rotting faces and cold, squashy fingers so maybe that was usual, the wakefulness even in dreaming and the way he felt asleep even walking along.
The little back-room smelled strong to noses that weren't used to it. Graham's money had walked itself down to the art store and made off with what it could afford and the back-room was a mess of charcoals and of paints and the spread of brushes drying off after use. Jake didn't think Aunt Clem had noticed, same way he didn't notice the smell because he was so used to it. He painted late, late enough to hear the door snick closed on Aunt Clem. Now he stretched in a mess of blankets and sheets and when the door opened, his head was a mess of hair all over and the sleep clung to his eyes, sticky as honey and he walked straight for the kitchen, pyjama pants riding hipbones and a shirt that was only a little dirty at the sleeve where he'd left it too close to the painting rags.
He didn't care for camomile anything. Coffee, and he reached with the comfort of knowing exactly where everything was and early-morning mute, instead of the other kind.]