Chapter EightAt 5:15am, the alarm that I hate with every fiber of my being jars me out of what was probably only my second round of REM sleep, which is easily three or four shy of a solid night’s sleep. I can feel the grouchiness glaze over me as I reach for my phone. Sure enough, Big Mama has sent three more texts, two of them rescinding previous requests, and the third asking for yet a new, physically impossible task to be completed before we meet this morning.
“She’s out of her f*****g mind.” I grumble, and decide to not act on any of the messages before we meet.
The request is an unnecessary push for a pre-read summary of the information that we’re supposed to dissect line by line anyway in oh, a little less than three hours. I’d willingly chew off my own baby toe then open my laptop
