That was probably right. Still …
“He loathed the music,” I said. “His own art. There’s something here, Prof. Something we haven’t noticed yet.”
“Perhaps.” Prof lingered in the doorway. “Abraham sent me with a message.”
“Which is?” I vaguely remembered Abraham pulling me out of the tunnel and carrying me to the hospital.
Prof frowned. “His exact words were ‘Tell him he was right about this city … so I’ll forgive him about the hot dog. Just this once.’ ”