Another brief bit of Infected: Paris …

This time, as requested, with Paris in it. But it’s short …


“I’m about done with that Bruen book you brought me,” Paris said, around a mouthful of breakfast croissant. Paris still ate like a feral cat, like he was afraid someone was going to rip it away at any second, and Roan didn’t begrudge him that at all. There had been times in his life when he was that hungry. “When I started reading it, I wondered how anyone could write a book with so few words, y’know. I mean, he hardly describes much of anything, does he? But then at some point I got sucked in. He can say a lot with a little.”

Roan smiled. That’s what he always thought about Bruen. “A good way to put it. He has a lot of the terse machismo of Hemingway without a lot of the macho bullshit and sexism.”

Paris smirked at him. “I’m not sure I’ve read Hemingway.”

“What do they teach you up in Canada?”

“Gordon Lightfoot lyrics.”

Roan chuckled. “Not Rush?”

“Maybe now. But when I was growing up, it was Lightfoot. I can recite all of The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald in French.”

Oh good, a guy who liked to bullshit. They could have fun together, maybe work out a couple of comedy routines. “I’d love to hear that sometime.”

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