He stands at the counter, separating eggs. He thinks he’s alone in the kitchen so the dad-rock is on and Dex sings along. “It ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no fortunate one.”
Nursey harmonizes, because he can’t help it.
Dex turns around, eggshell in hand. “Oh. I thought you were Holster. I don’t know why. Holster doesn’t even live here any more.”
“Bro,” Nursey says. It’s a combination of ‘Jeez you’re out of it’ and ‘Holster and I aren’t even from the same state, practically’ and ‘What the fuck, Poindexter’ all rolled into one eloquent syllable.
Dex crushes the eggshell in his hand and puts it in the garbage.
“Why did you do that?”
“So the witches can’t make them into boats,” Dex says.