M2 has posh tech and cash to spare, and that means we’re lying supine in the chambers of yet another grand hotel.
“If I’d known you’d planned un voyage gastronomique, I would have brought bigger clothes,” I groan at M2.
“Showing you the sights was the least I could do after you got me out of that jam,” she chuckles.
“Yes, but now I feel like I’m about to burst. All this heavy food is making me nod off after every meal.”
Actually, I feel almost sick with fatigue.
M2 passes out.
Too late, I understand. They’ve gassed us.
They’re coming.
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