“Seriously, the brats are, what, twenty fucking four? They can get themselves around,” Billy dismisses as he pulls away from the window. Clearly not impressed by your Beamer, Steve.

“I am. Most days. Some days…”

His hand rubs unconsciously over his shirt, over the skin under it, over the scar that was placed just barely far enough to the right to keep it from being instantly fatal. Sometimes he wondered if his survival, if the suffering with that survival, was another intentional wound.

“Some days aren’t as good. Guess this one is skewing that way now.”