20
The hops-infused air of the beer hall, the irregular hum of dozens of conversations coming through the door to the overcrowded con suite, and Dale’s plunging blood sugar from skipping dinner all combined to make his head feel a little hollow, like his brain had slipped its restraining bolts and sloshed against the inside of his skull with every turn of his head. Dale’s feet hurt; he’d packed all the shirts a sweaty man could ask for, but hadn’t known that these shoes didn’t fit well enough for him to stand in them all day. He’d happily sit for a moment, even in one of those awful folding chairs that cut into his flabby thighs, but the beer hall had zero chairs.
Probably for a reason.
He should probably head back to his room. Grab a protein bar and one of the apples he’d brought. Craw
