The twins sat middle row in their sleek terra-vessel. Liftoff was three minutes away, but instead of hooking into their sensory consoles, they gawked at the commotion behind them.
“What’s he doing?” one murmured.
“Making a drink,” the other answered.
They watched, mouths agape, as their great-grandfather dumped his small bottle of bourbon into a plastic soda bottle.
“Doesn’t he know he can get that injected?”
“I think he likes to do the work himself.”
The tired old man slipped in a straw before closing his eyes and taking a long satisfying pull.
“So weird,” the boys whispered in unison.
The Weekday One Hundred 