I have fallen asleep in the middle of typey typing a bunch of times now. Three times B1 has grabbed a nearly falling iPhone from my sleeping hand.
In general neither of us can recall which terminal we're headed toward at any given moment without lots of thought and a look out the window.
The lower deck of the MV Andrew J. Barberi is almost empty. We hungrily gobble power and potato chips.
5 hours to go. Go. Go.