That ... was not the sort of question Brock ever wanted to hear from Maladict. Particularly when they were out in the middle of nowhere. Because middles-of-nowhere tended to have a distinct lack of coffee pots to use as projectiles, you see.

He stopped walking to look where she was indicating, squinting as well.

"Yeah ..."

Well, on the one hand at least she wasn't hallucinating. On the other, glowy floaty things usually weren't good. Particularly in Paradisa.