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The tiny postapocalyptic biker gang dangles from Alejandro’s cursor as he tries to decide where in the desert to plop them down.

“You’re addicted to that game,” she says.

“It’s only addiction if my insurance covers it.”

“You don’t have insurance.”

“Shit,” he says, “I should take up smoking.”

“Anyway, this box is the last of your stuff. Unless you want the towels.”

“Nah,” he says, very lightly, “they’d smell like you.”

“Shit,” she says, “I should take up smoking.”

Alejandro drops the flailing bikers. They cheer and pop pixelated wheelies, until the one with the eyepatch dies of radiation poisoning.