My legs moved apart a little as she came closer, in for the kill. My lips came apart; I wanted to lick something, suddenly. The room felt hot.
Murphy grabbed my right butt cheek and squeezed.
I looked down at her, my face muscles feeling sullen and confused.
“Uh, Murphy? Are you a Pod Person? Because I would totally...”
Her knee, sheathed in comfortable jeans, came up and slammed me in the stomach.
“SHIT MURPH!” I gasped, and fell back on the bed, curling up onto my side. “I’m a sick man!”
After a moment, I flopped limply over the modern barf-mauve bedding, still heaving hard breaths and holding myself. Through the agony in my gut, I laughed gratefully into the pillows as the room spun a little.
“Sit. Stay,” she said, going to the door and lifting the bucket of fried ambrosia with one hand before trouncing over to my place of pain, “I killed the KFC for you, Hemingway. In the rain. Be nice to me by keeping still and resting.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I whimpered dutifully. The room wobbled a bit more.
Then she took hold of my jaws, cracked em open, and stuffed a whole breaded chicken breast between my teeth.