Just to be safe, we cured them all immediately. I mean, we’d had enough near-misses to last a lifetime. Or a death-time, as was seemingly the case.
See, it wasn’t just a mansion that came with all that money; Boris had a private jet, too. Ergo, so did I. Meaning, Disneyworld, here I come. The one in France, that is, and then Japan. Go big or go home, right? In any case, we drove them all to the jet, passports in hand. After that, Boris flew them to where he’d gone for the cure. A week later, he returned solo. Goodbye, good riddance.
As to what happened to them, they were dropped off back in Poland. Back to their lives, as they put it. All I know is, they were out of mine. Thank goodness.
“Are we getting cured?” I asked Steven, hours later, when we were alone in his mansion, in his bed,
