Chapter Four #2
“From my time in R it’s the Flop House. All the years I spent working at Ryser, assuming Ryser Cares was doing right by Greenstead, and it’s a lie. All the more reason for Greensteaders to hate me.
Something on my face must reveal my despair because Pink Floyd wheels a chair over and motions for me to sit down. I obey, concentrating on breathing in and out.
“You’ll get used to it, hon,” the crocheter says. “I hardly ever smell the mustard now. And when I do, it just makes me want a pretzel.”
They mutter in agreement about the deliciousness of pretzels while my brain races to comprehend what’s happening.
Pink Floyd offers to pick up a round of pretzels for everyone.
When he opens the door, I lift my head weakly to warn him about the geese, but they leave him alone as he walks past, completely unbothered.
Traitors.