29. Changi International Airport, Singapore

The guy tore off the LAX and SIN tags and stuck on KL. Eddie considered that an actual sign. He’d, like, even got through that whole flight without drinking, and he’d had to swallow his last pills with no water. Then they were duds, so that was massively backbone. He felt like fourteen hours in the trunk of a car.

And it was this next flight, and a cab to the hotel, which, by that time he’d need a whole day in the shower. Like, oriental girls beating him with loofahs, or an actual autoclave was really what would work. Cause, at this moment, Denise even seeing him was like, he lost his whole fear of jumping under trucks.

As he crab-stepped down the aisle of the plane, he just let his fucking briefcase bang people, he felt that shitty. God just don’t let the other person talk to him. And he was totally shutting the window and sleeping, none of that view crap. He was 24A, he had absolute window reign, no kowtowing to the scenery fascists.

It was a frumpy middle-aged woman in 24B. She was stooped over a book, oblivious to the baggage and potbellies grazing her ear. Eddie addressed her, curt:

“I’m the window. Excuse me?”

She looked up and smiled. She said, “Hi, Jack.”