[Mike snorts, a hard, rough breath as he finally turns and finds his chair again. As he'd left it, shoved harshly back from his table, lunch partially eaten on his tray. He pulls the chair back and drops decidedly into it.]
They could just send us home. Or do whatever's been done to those who just go.
no subject
They could just send us home. Or do whatever's been done to those who just go.
[He picks up his fork.]
This is entertainment.