"Right. Your thing with blood." Shit, he'd almost forgot. Of course he didn't want to eat. Mike felt oddly insensitive, waiting until they're out on the highway before speaking again.

"Thanks, Billy. I really mean it, thanks. I'll make sure you're around when I figure out what happened. You're loyal, man. I won't forget this." He really won't, either, and he exhales loudly before rolling the window down and screaming at the top of his lungs, trying to push all the nerves and emotions and chemicals and feelings out.

It's late, when they go into the beach house. No one's up, not even Johnny, and Mike tosses the keys onto the counter with a clack. He's at the fridge, all ready to grab his share of the tacos and just eat them cold. He needs to decompress. Needs to process what has just happened in the last few hours.