[She hops down from her stool and runs a hand along the edge of the table until she picks a seat, not at the head but next to it. She likes the table. It reminds her of her mother's kitchen. It has generations worn into it.
Murphy raps her knuckles against the surface once, a superstitious kind of greeting for the ghosts of diners past.]
I'm curious. What's Bruce Wayne's day like after a disaster like last night?
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Murphy raps her knuckles against the surface once, a superstitious kind of greeting for the ghosts of diners past.]
I'm curious. What's Bruce Wayne's day like after a disaster like last night?