“What is your name?” he repeated—no, he demanded. My hackles raised. “It’s Mindya Business.” “That’s exceedingly...lame,” he retorted. I snorted. Like a little piglet.
“So, he started getting dressed, and I was like hold me closer, tiny dancer, this is not the America I was promised, but it is the afterlife I’m here for.”
I frowned at him. “What point are you trying to make with your Chewbacca argument?” “Chewbacca argument?” “Yeah, you’re just saying a bunch of nonsensical words and stringing them together like they mean something.”
The plastic of the water bottle crinkled beneath my fingers as I stared at the bed—the only bed I saw in this whole place. How was this going to work? Were we going to share a bed?