"The thing about first class," Gabriel says, as though patiently explain the rules of the universe to a child. "Is that they treat you like royalty. For example, that limousine over there—" he points to a black, elegant-looking vehicle, right outside the lobby's doors, where a serious-looking man in a black suit stands by—"will bring us to your parents' house's very doorstep."
"Really?" Claire feels it must be too extravagant; she begins to worry about what her parents would feel about this. She hasn't warned them that she's coming home; right now, all they know is that their dear old Claire is still in the big city, working her cute ass off in one of those office buildings.
"It's actually the safest means of transport, Claire. We'll just tell our guy our destination, and he'd drive us no matter the distance."
Claire looks at Gab with her head tilted. "But you're used to all this. Why do you sound like it's your first time?"
