“How far away is the nearest Maccas?” All their heads snap up as if I said something wrong. “Why?” Brennan asks cautiously. “Because I’m feeling queasy and greasy crap food is supposed to help,” I say back, confused by our exchange. “Plus, I could go for a chocolate frappe.” “The closest one is about forty minutes away if there’s no traffic. If you didn’t notice, McDonald’s is not the food of the people here,” Davis says. Of course it isn’t. All these rich people with their private chefs and eating out. “You go kick out your friend, and I will make you something to eat,” Brennan offers. I sigh
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