On the table between them: one last roast potato, wrapped in a napkin, with a note in Mick’s handwriting:
Priya’s stomach dropped. “No—no, that’s wrong. I can’t do the Hive. I’ll panic. I’ll tap out.” On the table between them: one last roast
Mick leaned over. “Between you and me? I hate these things. But I hate quitting more. Now eat your damn steak before I finish it for you.” wrapped in a napkin