One look at Sammerin sitting in the spectator’s area, sagging in his chair, staring through the windows with a look of what I could only describe as resigned horror, told me exactly how Moth’s tests were going. I grimaced. “Poor Moth.” Max chuckled. “Poor Sammerin.” We heard the faint echo of a crash, a flurry of activity from the next room, and whatever Sammerin was seeing made him put his head in his hands and let out a heaving sigh. We took that as our cue to leave.
poor them..
