“You’re acting strange.” He paused, then added, “Stranger than usual.” Weaver fucking damn him. “Tell your men to stop feeding me buckets of oranges,” I snapped, striding to the door. “It’s bad for digestion. Maybe protein! Protein would be nice!” I left him standing there and huffed my way over to my own tent before he could stop me. Later that night, I was brought a beautifully roasted quail.
