“Mike, that’s not even remotely funny. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. I love you—unendurably. I will write to your major, and you will send the letter very quickly. Taking this for encouragement, her suitor proceeded still more extravagantly. ‘So that’s true, is it?’ ‘Certainly it is true,’ Melusine said, opening her eyes wide. I get my driver's license tomorrow.
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