“IT COULD BE a mirror eclipse,” Rucksack said to Jade. Her hand jerked. The pint glass banged against the tap, sending the black Galway Pradesh Stout foaming and sloshing. She set it down so the beer could settle before resuming the seven-minute pour that made for a perfect pint of GPS.
“But there hasn’t been a mirror eclipse since The Blast,” she replied. “And that was nearly two hundred years ago.”
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