24
The bottles in the mini-bar of Max’s room were too damned small, and he didn’t want to go outside. The thought of some Homeland Security agent shadowing him, or even just following him with security cameras gave him a sour burn at the top of his stomach. Vodka was the best way to quench that, he decided. He wasn’t fond of vodka anymore, but it was quick. He went down to the hotel bar.
It was a writer’s cliché that alcohol “quieted voices” in the head, but with Max it was literally true. He and Ming-Mei had made real progress in communicating with each other when one of them was in control of Dylan’s body. Their thoughts had to be kept pretty simple, but they got through as long as the person in the foreground was receptive to them. Too much caffeine or anxiety blocked reception. Alcoh
