Driscoll blinked, and then his eyes moved over Jak’s head, his brow scrunching. “What?” He gave his head a shake. “Yes. Boots. Right. Yes, bring me a pair of boots. And I’ll give you a box of matches.” “Two boxes,” Jak corrected. “You said you’d give me two boxes.” Driscoll waved his hand as though there was no difference between one or two. But he couldn’t mean that. The difference between plenty of matches and not enough was life…or death. “Two boxes. Yes, fine.”
Mf....
