Mike stepped back, moving away from the white things probing through the grate. He didn't want to see. God, not Rog. Rog. The guy he'd laughed with. The guy who'd always been looking for trouble. The guy he'd always pulled out of trouble. The guy he'd been too late to save. Far too late. He should have gone with him to that stupid dive strip club. Maybe this shit wouldn't have happened that way.
His massive hands moved to run over his face, and he felt his guts lurch. In the swarming flies and the stink of the basement, he thought he was going to throw up for a moment.
There was something horrible about the sad, white bones that jutted up from the grate. Something that made his guts roll more than anything else so far. Maybe it was the thought of Rog's hands before in his memories, the casual slaps on the back, all the times they'd been drinking.
He wanted a drink, desperately.