NATHAN
Marcus's basement smells like pizza grease and the inside of a controller nobody's cleaned since freshman year. Six of us are crammed onto the sectional, Tyler already down two rounds in Call of Duty, complaining about lag that isn't actually happening.
"Yo, Nathan's here," Marcus says, not looking up from his screen. "Didn't think you did stuff on Saturdays anymore."
"It's like six o'clock. Service ended hours ago."
"Service." Tyler snorts. "Listen to him. Like he's in the Peace Corps."
I drop onto the open cushion and grab a controller nobody's using. "It's community service, man. Court-ordered. Not a vacation."
"Court-ordered to fold napkins into triangles?" Marcus says, and I freeze for half a second before I remember—I told them that. Weeks ago. Made it a joke before it c
