Fidget spinner in hand, Bobby stepped off of his Italian imported moped and made his way to the fence where the boys had congregated. Hitting his Juul during the walk, he rubbed a sympathetic hand on his own aching lower back, which had been his ticket home on medical separation from his service in the National Reserves. Days like these, little was more refreshing than cracking open a [I]nice, cold one[/I].

"Well," Bobby croaked as he pulled an ice cold can of craft brew out of his fanny pack, "I hear she has a weird-shaped thumb, Mr. Dauterive."