“Ready to rock?”

I rolled my eyes at him. It was a bad pun. It has been a bad pun since the first geologist made it, probably around the time Elvis first swiveled his hips. I shifted the rucksack so it was higher on my back and wiped the sweat off my forehead.

“Tia, I asked you a question.” he was grinning fit to burst.

I glared at him. “Bad pun, George. Bad! No cookie.”

His face crumpled. “Aw. I like cookies.”

“How much farther is this terribly amazing site that you drug me out of a blissfully air-conditioned lab to see?” I asked, pointedly.