Leo put his book down. He was a lanky yoga enthusiast who believed the cure for everything from heartbreak to hiccups was touch. “Lie down. Trust me. It’s not magic, it’s just drainage.”
Elara woke up to the feeling of a tiny, angry dwarf hammering the inside of her forehead. It was the fourth day of "The Plague," as she called her seasonal allergies. Her nose was a stopped-up faucet, her teeth ached, and her voice had dropped to a baritone groan.
Elara glared. “Unless ‘pressure point’ means hitting my head against the wall, no.”
Air.