Each time she woke from sweet oblivion she told herself it would have to be the last, but a few hours later and she’d be sweating desperation from every pore. Waves of sick need, like an incoming tide, each one higher than the last. Each one resisted took a heroic effort, and Monza was no hero, however the people of Talins might once have cheered for her. She’d thrown her pipe away, then in a sticky panic bought another. She wasn’t sure how many times she’d hidden the dwindling lump of husk down at the bottom of one bag or another. But she’d found there’s a problem with hiding a thing
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