“It could be rat. Liquefied, peppered rat.” Eve shoved her cup into Peabody’s hand. “It’s a hospital! Hospitals don’t serve rat.” As she wound, Eve swung toward a recycler, stopped. Pointed. “Dispose of the rat soup.” “It’s not rat. I didn’t drink rat.” But Peabody fumbled the door open, juggling go-cups. She hotfooted it to the recycler, dumped the cups. She slid back into the car, downtrodden. “Can I get a diet fizzy from the AC?”
