“Are you gonna talk to her after the game?” Hollis asks expectantly. “Or do we need to bring out a shotgun and—” “Relax, you don’t have to make me talk to her at gunpoint,” I say with a chuckle. “What?” His expression is puzzled. “I was going to say we’d clock you in the back of the head with the shotgun, knock some sense into you.” I turn to Fitzgerald, who shrugs and says, “His brain operates on a level us mortals can’t comprehend.”
Book:The Risk