The Shadow

The Shadow has been back in his own world for several days, but he has yet to see any duty on the streets. The combination of grave warnings from the doctors and nurse Branigan, combined with an awareness that he still wheezes after any form of exertion are enough to persuade him to take rest. The Shadow's form of rest, however, may not be quite what the clinic staff had in mind.
The apartment of James Rettigue, sleek with black furnishings and little decoration, is nearly as good as a second Sanctum. He would prefer the familiar, dusty elegance of the abandoned Cranston Mansion for his recovery, but this is a working vacation. There is a luxury here, in that the black suede sofa is long enough for even him to lie out at full length. It is here he spends much of his days, papers and books within reach on the coffee table, PINpoint in hand. It sees almost constant use for text communication with Burbank. The phone is also close at hand, thanks to an extended cord, because sometimes it is easier to give instructions and recieve information in a more personal fashion. The task of coordinating agents, even as expanded as his network has become, to cover for him is a more laborious task than his usual work. He sleeps erratically, as has become his habit, and forces himself off the couch to stretch and make coffee and occasionally food. Just once, when things seem quiet for an hour or two, he dons black garments and visits the Nexus for the sake of preserving his own sanity and patience.

Somewhere amidst this life-devouring stream of work, he finds a few moments here and there to write notes, bundle together borrowed books, and PINpoints them home to their respective owners. ( He appreciated every visit... )

When the thank you letters are done, he returns to his work, and his private worries over Myra.