By the time Graham Cook and the others had descended the stairs, their legs were so stiff they couldn't stand.
Glancing at the time, it was already three in the afternoon.
A group of people took turns carrying Bran Cook down from the high-rise building in their twenties, each one as tired as the next.
"Amos Davenport, I'm going to beat you to the ground one of these days!"
Graham Cook, hands on his hips, cursed as he looked up at the thirty-some-story building in front of him.
He wanted to walk now, but his legs were too weak to stand.
"Master Cook, let's take a break, I'll be so exhausted I'll get diarrhea if I walk any more!"
A Cook family's person was panting heavily, swallowing his spit.
They were so thirsty their throats were smoking, and there was no place to buy water on the way. It had been a struggle to carry Bran Cook down from the upper floors, and now they were lying on the ground, too weak to move.
"Solomon, go buy a bottle of water to drink, I..."
