"I don't," he says in a mumbled answer to Metody's words of family. But he registers the tone, sympathy, empathy, and he bites his lip, looking up at the slight pale girl.

(Who smells weird. --man, Jesus, that is some funk--)

He hears what she's saying but it still doesn't make any sense. It can't make any sense. Nothing about tonight-- shape-changing iPads and weird people who don't meet your eyes the right way and goth girls who walk around in body armor and the fact that he's sitting around in his underwear with said goth girl*-- nothing makes any sense.

Jeremy plants his elbows on the table and plops his face into his hands. "I have no idea what's going on," he says dully.

"And you're telling me it's not a bad trip."




*Okay, the sitting around in his underwear is actually pretty normal for some nights of the week