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Her cringing is accompanied by her tongue sticking out of her mouth.

“I know! It was bad too!” His laughing convinces her to join as well as slip into his hold. “We’ll work on it on the way to the station, okay?”

A tiny nod is followed by the boy doing his best to say the word which makes her giggle again.

Laughter really is universal.

Like love.

Or hate.

Fuck, was that philosophical?

Should I include that type of shit in my letter to myself?

Double fuck.

I gotta find time to finish that shit and turn it in.

When?

When the hell am I supposed to sit down and figure that shit out?

Somewhere between rescuing kids and committing murder is the best estimate I’ve got at the moment.

Can’t help but think that ain’t enough time.

Tags begins heading back to his vehicle; however, before he’s out of earshot, Kegger informs, “You’re gonna wanna call AFD in about four to seven minutes.”

He nods his understanding and doesn’t object.

Doesn’t demand “the law” handles this.

Them.

No.

This is Misfit shit.

And we’re gonna take care of it.

“Flames,” Kegger retrains his attention, “got your flask?”

“Always.”

“Drinking or cleaning?”

“Both.”

“Give one to Dock,” he slowly steps towards the front of the vehicle, “and get to work. Front and back.”

“Happily,” our pyro croons. “Fucking. Happily.”

Post a quick hustle over to his bike, Flames offers me one of the metal twelve oz containers and clinks in a cheers nature shortly after it’s in my possession.

I prepare to ask what’s in mine when he shakes his head. “Wouldn’t drink that one.” He has a small swig of his. “That shits for cleaning.”

“And burning.”