Mona wonders what to say. Something shudders and curls in her stomach. She runs to his trash can, grabs it, and vomits into it prolifically. Parson looks on, mildly perplexed. “Or perhaps not?” he asks. “Things got fucked,” gasps Mona. “They got what?” “Fucked,” she says again, angry. “Things went fucking nuts on the way back here!” “In a matter that concerns the key?” “No, it does not concern the key. I don’t think. Hell, I don’t know.” “Then you have it?” She glares at him, streams of spittle still hanging from her lips. She wipes them off with a forearm, rummages around in her backpack, and takes out her glove with the key wrapped inside. She looks at it, then up at Parson. So far, he’s given her very little reason to trust him. He seems to sense this.
