Yes, it's your fault I'm alive.
If I get home, I'll be so stinking rich, I'll be able to pay someone to do my hearing.
Something flickers across his bloodshot eyes. Pain.
Better not to give in to it.
Plants are tricky. Many are edible, but one false mouthful and your dead
One more time? For the audience?" he says. His voice isn't angry. It's hollow, which is worse. Already the boy with the bread is slipping away from me. I take his hand, holding on tightly, preparing for the cameras, and dreading the moment when I will finally have to let go.