91.

Memphis has three hundred on The Dark Horse, which is why Boston has chosen to back The East. Saltwater sky bleeding onto the deck, she bolts awake.

“Monsters again?” Memphis is waxing rails.

“No,” says Boston, wanting the blood to drain from her eardrums, back to her ribcage, bludgeoning for it. Her head is all white walls, spattered with AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL signs, geometric courtyards that only lock from the inside. “Are we there yet?”

Everything is liquid, eternal.

“Back to sleep, milady,” Memphis advises with a wink. “You’ll feel the drop.”