Ryder glares over at me. “Open the fucking fanny pack!” he screams. Roxy laughs. “What’s in it?” Leaning back on my knees, I unzip it and show her the grenades inside. “Do you always keep your grenades there?” she inquires, the firing still going on around us. “Not always, sometimes I keep knives or tacos in it,” I murmur as I palm one. “Tacos?” she echoes. “I get hungry when I fight.”
