“Did you pack any lunchmeat on you?” Farrow asks me seriously. Which surprises me because Farrow and SFO have been ribbing me about the ham and turkey I bought when we landed. I’m six-seven. I’m fucking hungry during long travels, and yeah, I stuffed a package of lunchmeat in my winter jacket and kept pulling out slices to eat. Which is why they were losing their shit in laughter. And I caught my lip rising a few times. Receiving the wise-cracks and light-hearted jabs with no malice attached—it feels unreal, and I’m not sure I deserve the brotherhood that I hurt. But every day I plan to prove
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