Mid-Atlantic, April 1993 I could murder for some proper orange juice," Lindsay Gordon grumbled, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the plastic cup of juice on her airline breakfast tray. She sipped suspiciously. It managed to be both sharp and sickly at the same time. "You know, something that tastes like it once met an orange. This stuff hasn't even been shown a photograph." "You'd better get used to it," Sophie Hartley said, peeling the lid back from her own cup and knocking back the liquid. She winced. "Not that it'll be easy
