"I think my hand is broken," Hank says.
"Your hand's not broken," I say, giving it a squeeze to prove my point.
"Ow! That hurt!"
"It did not. You're such a baby."
Hank growls and bounces up and down on his chair.
"You can't break the chair. It's metal and bolted to the ground."
"I know that. I'm just expending energy in order not to kill you." He sounds like he's speaking through his teeth. Mad. I'm not too happy, either. Our wrists are bound together with zip ties behind our backs. Our legs are shackled to chairs, and we're in the middle of an otherwise empty hangar of some kind.
It's like a Tarantino movie without the soundtrack.
"This isn't my fault," I say.
"I didn't say it was. But my broken hand is definitely your fault."
"It's not broken. I can feel you making a fist. You
