“Or three. Or twelve. My eyes ache like they’ve been loaded on rusty metal springs. My temple throbs like somebody’s just nailed a red-hot horseshoe around the inside of it. The back of my head pulses like somebody’s trying to inflate it with a bicycle pump. And my mouth—my tongue feels like it’s a slug that’s crawled halfway across an equatorial desert and died, and my throat feels like it was just the parade route for a troop of hermit crabs. And my stomach… sloshing around like I’...m in a car with no shock absorbers driven by a drunk who’s decided to take a shortcut through a timber yard. “Carsick” doesn’t cover it. “Hey, Wist, how you feelin’?” asks Whit. I wince and croak back, “What’s with all the noise and the bumpety-bump?” I’m still not able to open my eyes properly to see where I am. “We’re having another New Order van ride,”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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