The hotel conference room that the Were leadership have commandeered has two windows. One is full of streaming sunlight, offering the picturesque, urban delight of an expansive view of the parking lot and the fast-food diner and gas station beyond on the opposite side of the busy street. The other stands dim and shadowy overlooking the inner garden, the late afternoon sun unable to penetrate the overgrowth of the open courtyard the hotel is built around.
Unconsciously, I support Dorian's shoulders as he vomits into the room's small, plastic-lined bin. Beyond the dense and unruly garden, I can marginally discern the television in the lobby has been tuned to the local news. Hotel patrons previously headed to or fro on their own business are stopped, eyes lifted in undisguised horror at the emergency newscast images of the swarming Rényú host. Their panic-stricken expressions are visible from here.
