52
“Miranda,why don’t you tell us what you know so far?”
Miranda continued to inspect her meal. It looked…strange. She preferred brown rice, but her plate bore a cup of such perfectly formed white sticky rice that not a single grain had fallen from the freestanding mound arched into a perfect hemisphere. The sauce, she tested it carefully with the tip of a chopstick, was indeed very spicy. But Andi was eating it by mixing it with little bits of the rice and fish.
Perhaps it was okay.
However, Drake and Clarissa were using their forks and spoons. Should she not have used her chopsticks to match them? Andi was using hers, so she would accept that as a guide.
“Miranda?” Susan asked again. Commander Piazza wasn’t a useful indicator as she hadn’t touched her meal yet, keeping both hands around her coffee cup as if someone might take it.
Miranda considered the best way to evenly excise sections from the rice ball without damaging the perfection of the symmetry, but was unsure how to begin. Explaining the crash she still didn’t understand would be easier. She set her chopsticks down on the edge of her plate, focused on the line of the sun sliding along the minarets, and cursed—very softly so that the guards wouldn’t hear or be offended.
How had she not seen that?
She pulled out her phone and dialed quickly.