When he texted me that first week to ask what my final meal on this earth would be, I thought it was so he could take me out on a thoughtful date. I never thought it might be so he could make it my actual final meal.
My phone buzzes again.
SAMUIL: You sure you don't want to eat? I make a mean pad thai.
I snort, rolling onto my back on the cloud-soft mattress. The idea of Samuil Litvinov cooking anything is laughable. Though the food in the picture does look homemade, with bits of crushed peanuts scattered just so and fresh herbs still bright green...
NOVA: I'd rather dine with Satan himself than break bread with you.
SAMUIL: Satan's a terrible dinner companion. No table manners.
Against my will, my lips twitch. I throw my phone onto the bed a few feet away from me. I refuse to be suc
