This is what I get for complaining I could use a little more action in my life: A total of two hours of sleep, an apartment that smells like rubbing alcohol, and a hard-on that just won't quit.
Batman showed up last night after I put the signal in the window, only this time it was 20 minutes after midnight by the time he arrived. (I know, because this time I was ready for him, in case he tried to pull that peeping-tom routine again. Instead, I sat waiting by the window for nearly an hour.) I knew something was wrong from the minute I spotted him climbing up the side of the building, because he was moving much slower than usual, almost in a daze; I was even afraid he was going to lose his grip on his rope.
When I opened the window, he practically fell into the apartment. In the light, I could see that his costume was flecked with grass and mud, and there were several small rips in his cape.
"... Sorry I'm ... late," he practically grunted, in a voice not much louder than a whisper, as he stumbled to the floor. It seemed to take great effort to get the words out.
"Are you okay?" I asked, praying the answer would be yes and that this was all for the sake of drama, because I had no idea what to do next.
"First ... aid ... kit ... third compart ... ment ... of my belt," he mumbled. Third from the left, or the right, I wondered to myself, already fearing I was in over my head. My hand headed for the third one from the right.
"Other ... side," he said, with a slight edge of irritation.
I located the proper pouch and opened it, revealing an ingeniously compact collection of ointments, bandages, and tweezers. But by the time I waved it in front of his eyes, he had already passed out.
Shit.