Amena demanded, “If you’re not angry, then what’s wrong?” I was definitely glaring now. “How do you want the list sorted? By time stamp or degree of survivability?” Amena said in exasperation, “I mean what’s wrong with you!” There’s that question again, but I assumed she didn’t want to discuss the existential quandary posed by my entire existence. “I got hit on the head by an unidentified drone and shot, you were there!”
