“London, mate,” he told him. Max eyeing the other as he wipes his sunglasses with his t-shirt. “Had too much to drink, didn’t you?” He asked, jovially, as he stretched his arms out. “Me too.”
“London,” Holden echoes, his tone hollow and laced with soft bewilderment.
The first word that comes to mind is easy target; but all he can focus on is how nice it is to be able to make sense of something. “Yeah, sure. What –– what time is it?”
