“Yeah, people are assholes, they treat it like make-believe, like—like there aren’t so many people all the time, just, dead, all the time. Like it’s our patriotic duty to keep piling these guys onto a boat with a hole in it.”
Michael leans forward on his elbows and runs his hands through his hair, pulling at it a bit and sighing. For the moment, he seems to have completely forgotten about his food. “I can’t stand the thought of it. Any of it, anywhere.”