What we didn’t take into account was what it would feel like for us to wait out that hour. I was pacing the floor within the first fifteen minutes, cranky enough to bite someone’s head off for so much as speaking too loud. Argent just sprawled on the bed, lost in his own thoughts. At first I thought he was totally unaffected by the waiting, and hated him for it. But then, somewhere around fifty minutes into the span, Jean Trudel waltzed in the door with a plate of sandwiches and a couple of cold beers—and the chromed runner had leaped halfway off the bed before he could stop himself. A little jumpy, Argent? I wanted to say, but kept a tight rein on my yap.