19
The wooden bench slats dug into Dale’s rear. He abruptly felt very aware of the corridor’s atmosphere, as if the air conditioners had recycled the same air once too often. His backpack’s flat back made a hollow at the base of his spine, where Dale’s heat and sweat became a sauna. His mouth tasted of questionable breakfast and just a hint of coppery fear.
A few feet away, Surge heaved in a breath and rubbed his palms into his eyes.
Dale licked his lips. “You don’t seem to get along too well with Lash.”
Surge laughed, dropping his hands. “We have our differences, but he was basically cool.” His eyebrows narrowed. “Why do you say that?”
“Wasn’t that you arguing with him?” Dale asked. “In the bar.”
“Oh, that.” Surge waved a hand. “He’s on the—the, uh, harassment committee.”
“You have
