She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. His build was medium, he would never 5 tower over his peers, yet his shoulders were broadening, betrayed by an undeveloped set of pectoral muscles underneath his button-down shirt that she could tell frustrated him. Fear nothing. She listened with dumb fear in her eyes. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. “You see you do not know how much of truth there is in his story. That’s all. My proposition is for you to keep an eye on him, and the moment he puts on his clothes to send me a telegram, care of the HongKong Hotel. “I should make sure that he doesn’t try to drive himself home.
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