Par for the course, he said. How cute! How quippy! How funny? How absofuckinglutely ridiculous?!
Joking at a time like this—is he crazy?
If he wasn’t already dying, I’d kill him myself.
It’s been an hour. I’m sitting in a chair that Satan himself surely had a hand in designing, based on the damage it’s doing to my tailbone. I keep having this insane urge to laugh, then to cry, and I end up doing this bizarre hybrid of the two instead. I keep a hand plastered over my mouth, because if anyone hears me making these noises, I’ll be admitted directly to the psych ward.
It doesn’t help that my brain, motormouth that it is, refuses to shut up. Even here and now, while Matvei is somewhere on the other side of those double doors with a team of strangers rooting around in his ribs like he’s a Th
