Maynard, the lecturer seated beside him, left with Kraft, carrying Hangover Tea as they went to look for Petrie. Out of concern for a fellow physician, Linden joined them.
The three of them took a candelabrum and headed down the corridor they had come from.
Pouring liquid into an unconscious person was somewhat dangerous, and there was no need to do so unless it was an emergency. So earlier, they had decided to carry the drunk Petrie indoors to rest and wait for him to recover on his own before deciding what to do.
Heavy clouds that had lingered after the downpour obscured the half-moon's faint light, and empty darkness filled the side hall and corridor. They slowly climbed the steps one after another, circling around the tables and chairs buried in the gloom. Echoes bounced back from the far end of the space, seeming to follow close behind.
"I don't think we lit a lamp for Petrie. I hope he doesn't bump into anything when he wakes up and looks for his shoes." Maynard carried the candelabrum at the front, breaking the silence that had blended into their surroundings. "One, two, three—the third room. I think this is it."
He stopped to listen for a moment, then politely knocked to announce their arrival.
In the still, dark atmosphere, everything seemed distant. Of the music in the hall at the other end, only the flute's piercing notes could reach them, sounding intermittently in the damp corridor like bubbles bursting at the end of a fluid-filled airway.
There was no particular reason for it, but Kraft simply felt that way. The unanswered knock sounded just like the dull, muffled note of percussion over a solid lung.
"Do you smell anything?" He sniffed, feeling that it touched on something in his memory,