He closes his eyes as Raylan leaves to get the blanket, forcing them open again on his return. He can’t tell how long it’s been. Probably not long. He said he was getting them from the couch.

He doesn’t fight or protest as Raylan lifts his head, feeling ever more like a lead-filled doll with little capacity for anything but pain. “He killed me,” Neal insists quietly. “I knew he would, I went in knowing. I…”

His focus drifts for a moment, back to the memory or vision or whatever it was. “I was counting on it.”

He knows it’s true without knowing why he would be banking on something like that. Why he would want to. He tries to draw in a deeper breath and his expression twists up with pain again. “Sedatives?”

This time there’s a plea to it.