Excerpt
"Who knows what the hell it is?" arguing over instant coffee (me) and sluggish mineral water (her). The flat reeked of smoke; we'd been fighting, slow and tense, for hours already. Never questioning it, even then, never a shred of doubt, just the birth of the eternal disagreement. Because how could we, how could anyone deny that calm black fact, stationed there on the floor in a crummy unused storage room in a crummier building on a street no developer would ever claim?
Speculation, sure. Where'd it come from, where—Nakota's first, still most passionate concern—did it lead to? "If you went down there," her eyes all shine.
"If you went down there."
"Oh yeah."