Two
Farrell handed Ryann a beaker of something steaming, and she took it with a nod of thanks. There was no need for words. Not when they were the only two left.
The aroma of sweet coffee rose from the beaker. At least the sugar would take the edge off the bitterness.
Farrell, his own beaker clenched in one hand, grunted as he eased down on a hard chair. There was no luxury of cushioning here, just a functional plastic table and six bland, uncomfortable chairs.
When they had first been brought from the Hermes, all those seats were taken. Now, there was only the two of them.
Farrell sipped his own drink—coffee with lots of milk powder, if Ryann’s nose did not deceive her—and pulled a face. Not in pain at the heat, but a general wince. Pain from the whole situation.
“He’s not comin
