It's too early for there to be any coffee. I stare dully at the empty pot in the common room, while Sam picks up a jar of instant grounds. "Don't," I warn him. He scoops up a heaping spoonful and, heedlessly, shovels it into his mouth. It crunches horribly. Then his eyes go wide. "Dry," he croaks. "Tongue. . . shriveling. " I shake my head, picking up the jar. "It's dehydrated. You're supposed to add water. Good thing you're mostly made of water. " He tries to say something. Brown powder dusts his shirt. "Also," I tell him, "that's decaf.
I think I just have this need to be a storyteller. That's why I wasn't a great dancer - I couldn't articulate a story. I was a better choreographer. I have the need to to just express myself in that way. I can't explain it.