She schlopped hopelessly into the flight cradle of her +DBLNA dronecraft. Frustration like today’s made the extra payments worth it, she was glad she forked out for the comfy seats.

“Milton,” she begged into the microphone.

A video connection fizzed across the viewscreen. A bold young gal pulled her brass-rimmed goggles off and winked happily. “Jenibber,” she said sweetly, and slowly, like treacle, “what can I do for you?”

“I didn’t expect you to answer right away,” the reporter explained ruefully, “let me key in my journey.”

“Ah, yes, keep me waiting… vintage Jen behaviour,” Milton’s muddy cheeks dimpled out a smile.

Beep, beep, boop. “Just let me!” BEEEEEP! The dronecraft’s blades cut into the night, and left old Spitball Willie’s shack behind in a cloud of rich, red, desert dust.

“Jen…” Milton encouraged painlessly. The judgment in her voice was hidden, lovingly, within a drowning, irresistible, gooey kindness.

“What can you tell me about Patches, Jazz-man, and Lil’—”

“For fuck’s sake, Jen!” Milton snapped angrily, this bullshit was going to be the death of them both. “Just go the fuck home,” she pleaded, “it’s not worth it.”