As you clumsily stumble over the 4-chair barricade dividing the two sides of the shuttle, you exchange smiles with the large woman in the equally large hat. Then you catch your leg in one of the seat belts, and plummet downwards to meet the floor, face first.

Standing up and brushing yourself off, you notice the woman is still staring at you, her enthusiastic smile still plastered directly onto her rounded, creased-up little face. She gives the empty glass she's holding a gentle sway from side-to-side, and the metal straw inside makes a pleasant tinkling noise.

You stare at her, and a few seconds pass, neither of you fully able to understand the moment.

Then her grin drops to a sullen grimace.

"Oh," she says, disappointment dripping off every Southern-accented word she forms. "I thought ya'll was serving me another mojito."

"There are drinks on this flight?" you ask, panic setting in at the idea you'd missed out.

"No, but a girl can dream, right?" she replies.

Another moment of silence, broken by the woman smiling again.

"Ah'm Sandy, by the way. It's a pleasure, whoever ya'll are."

"Oh, hi," you reply weakly. "I'm not allowed to disclose my identity for legal purposes." It gets harder to say every time.

"Oh, ya'll must work for one of them megacorps, then. Mah daddy owns hisself one or two of 'um, or runs 'um, or somethin' like that. But ah'm pretty sure it ain't QuarrixCo he's involved with."

For a moment, you stare in surprise; you hadn't mentioned which corporation you find yourself indentured to. Then Sandy nods her head towards your jacket lapel, and all becomes clear. Of course, you're still wearing your "Happiness is Belonging to QuarrixCo!" pinbadge. Could they make them any more dehumanising?

You could easily continue chatting with Sandy for a few minutes. If that's what you want, turn to page 77.

Or maybe you should just return to your seat? If so, turn to page 13.