Wolf Worm

“I am,” said the man chained to the table, “though I fear you have the advantage of me.” Another hoarse, clicking chuckle.

“Sonia Wilson,” I said automatically, and my brain was so far gone from normal matters that I actually thrust out my hand to shake. We both stared at it, and then I said, “Oh hell, I’m bad at this,” and pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling tears start to threaten again.

(You’d think being in mortal peril would eliminate any sense of social awkwardness, but apparently it just means that you get to spend the last moments of your life embarrassed.)

“It’s not something you get good at,” Saul said.