“How nice,” I reply.

“So,” Tim says, “How’s an eleven year old get a green card?” Crap.

“I have that.. uh.. whatsit… Webster Disease… just not as bad as some people,” I answer, praying he bought it.

“Oh, you poor soul,” he says. Swish. I beam.

“Well, it’s not terrible… I mean, I get into zoos for less!” I joke. He chuckles.

“True. Well, we’ve got two hours, I guess we need something else to talk about.” Oh deary me.