Aeryn entered the cell at a run.  “Here’s everything I could find,” she said, dumping a mound of
containers onto the bed.  “There has to be something in here that will help.”  

Crichton had both hands buried deep inside the front of his pants, scratching furiously.   “We
went through this the first time it happened, Aeryn.  Nothing helps.”

“I know.  I’m sorry.  I was busy and I forgot.”  

“It’s bad enough that I’m allergic to every type of alien detergent we’ve managed to find, but did
you have to choose a day when all my shorts needed to be washed?”  


                                                        
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