Despite her sharpness, scorn and blatant psychosis, Darlene is growing on Rob. There’s a pride and a spark in her that he can respect, if not exactly like.
He doubts there’s anything of the sort in Salem, though.
The man has distinct, nearly visible rings of smell, like Saturn, each level adding a complex new flavor to the horror: fish, wet dog, urine, ancient sweat and, innermost, breath. Right now, Rob thinks he can actually smell the decay of the man’s teeth.
“What’s the matter, little snack?” Salem leers, thrusting the stick at him. “We got a soft spot for froggies?”