His Manhattan apartment was, for all its luxury, small as a coffin, admittedly—but this ‘room,’ if it could be called that, was basically a doll’s bedroom. His Fluevog-clad feet hung over the edge. Sure, he was a tall, lanky sort, but even still—this bedroom made him feel like a giant. And not in a good way. Plus? Paneled walls? Did someone really think paneling was a good idea inside a recreational vehicle? This was not high-class travel. This was not, ‘I’ll put on a suit and a fedora and sip a dirty vodka martini while we fly the friendly skies.’ This was more like, ‘This city bus smells like dead hobo.’ Well, whatever. It was what it was. And what it was was the relative extinction of the human race. The accordion door pulled open. Kayla poked her head in. “Hey,” she said, looking wobbly. He waved her in with the curl of a finger. She entered, closed the door with a rattle. For the last couple hours, they’d been murmuring about him and what to do. Did they really think he couldn’t hear them?
