Gideon takes a few steps as the line shuffles forward. No one's telling them off for making a scene, and Gideon supposes they don't want their holiday of an afterlife disturbed. The only good part of this conversation is that Harrow knows who the fuck she is. As always, it could be worse.

"It's fried and greasy, and you dip it into one or more sauces," Gideon explains. She looks around and points at a group of people walking away from the tent. A thin veil of flimsy separates—the holy shit that looks like paper—containing the what smells promisingly rich in protein. "That," she points out. "I want that."