So there’s me, halfway up this hill in the middle of bloody nowhere, trying to wrangle this ancient wheezing ox we’ve got, pulling this enormous wagon.”
Strike one: It wasn’t an ox.
“And you can see what comes next, right?” Lain’s voice, floating over the cubicle partition. “Shitty little gravel path, overburdened cart—”
“Oh, no.” That was Divya, leaning against Sigmund’s desk, listening to Lain’s stories.
“Oh, yes,” Lain said. “And my brother and his mate, charging ahead on their scooters”—strike two: They were not on scooters—“and taunting me all, like, ‘Lain, Lain. Glaciers move faster. We’ll be dead before we get there.’ ” Strike three: They hadn’t called him Lain. “And finally I’m, like, ‘Right. Screw you guys.’ ”
“Uh-oh . . .”