Straggling out of the cave
past the canopy of slumbering bats
to pile in the Citation and venture onward
Pupils rapidly adjust from zero light to an apparent magnitude of -26.7.
A funk descends under the visage of Pete the Chef.
The eyes, gazing from sun-bleached plastic... focusing, boring down... must be saying something...
Blinded by the sunset, the realization settles in on six of the eight pupils.
“Ray, we’re supposed to be heading east... turn it around!”
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