"Lovely, lovely," Milana sang. "Sebastian, what is Sara's favorite color?"
"Necrotic kidney," he said, spiking the pineapple high over my head. I barely caught it, and ended up with my t-shirt half untucked.
"Sara, your turn—"
"Anything infected with C. diff," I replied, putting all my weight behind sending that stupid pineapple to his scowly face.
"Oh, god," he groaned, catching the toy as it bounced off him. "Not fair, Shap. Intestinal bacterium is out of bounds. Don't make me think about that. I'm gonna gag."
"Next question," Milana called. "Sara, did Sebastian have any pets as a child?"
The ball connected with my thigh as I said, "They all ran away."
Before he was prompted, Sebastian said, "You're the one who can summon monsters with your screeching. It must be difficult with yetis and the Chupacabra and the Loch Ness monster showing up all the time. Do they stay for dinner?"
The pineapple hit my other leg as I scrambled to catch it and throw back the ball without either touching the floor. The ball connected low on his torso and his eyes flared as he caught hold of it. These toys were small and light but I was breathing hard and sweating from this activity, and so was Sebastian.
"Let's move on to siblings," Milana said.
"You can find Stremmel's on a true crime podcast," I said, aiming the pineapple at his jaw.
"As victims?" he asked. "Or killers?"
The squishy ball connected with my loose bun and half my hair slipped free from the tie but there was no time to stop and fix it. "Does it matter?"
"A bit," he yelled. "Am I the murderer? Are they? Come on! Get your game right, Shap. Don't fall apart on me now. If you're taking these shots, you better shoot to kill."
"Then, yeah. You're the serial killer here."
"Thank you," he shouted.
"Sebastian," Milana started, "tell us about Sara's—"
"You mean the Children of the Corn?"
"Veryinventive," I said, sending the ball to his jaw again.
"Better than serial killer," he replied, nailing my thigh with the pineapple.
"Really, though?" I argued. "I don't see how corn-harvest murderers are any different. Do better."
With an eye roll, he turned to Milana. "Do you have anything harder?"
I took that opportunity to fire the pineapple right at his chiseled cheek. His head snapped back and the pineapple rolled under the coffee table. There was a full second where he was stunned silent.
But then he rounded on me, his signature scowl replaced with a flat, open-mouthed stare that was many, many times more dangerous than any other look he'd ever sent my way. At the exact same second, we dived for the crate and grabbed all the ammunition we could carry and let loose on each other. Plush toys, bouncy balls, stress balls, tennis balls, every variety of pharma swag—it was a wild, hiccuping blur of hits and throws.
"You just don't know when to stop," Sebastian shouted, an eggplant stress toy with the brand name of an erectile dysfunction drug printed on it flying from his hand.
"And you do?" I cried, throwing two miniature frisbees. "You could've stopped this shit last week but you didn't!"
"Oh, because I wouldn't fall in line with your precious little terms?" A series of three hard bouncy balls ricocheted off my thigh. They were going to leave a mark. "You have got to be fucking kidding me."
"I was trying to make this easier on everyone," I yelled.
"And who the fuck asked you to do that?" he countered, whipping a small cactus plush at my face. "I don't need you looking after me. If I need to staple a fucking laceration, I'll staple it—and just so you know, I'm fully aware that staples aren't right in every case. I fucking agree with you but you're too busy force-feeding me to even hear that and—"
"You're too condescending to force-feed," I said.
