Maybe I need to reflect on the very real possibility that I'm just a bit salty about this whole thing because, when I was playing sports in school, our wound care consisted of an old toolbox full of glorified duct tape, an ice machine that might have a few cubes but only if the Pepsi wasn't selling well that night, and no shortage of dads who would loiter around the bench laughing at your grotesquely swollen ankle telling you to "walk it off".
Passwords are officially out of hand. I don't recall this level of nonsense when I was building forts with my buddies back in grade school.
"The broad smile returned to her face, and she giggled, a grating, mechanical sound, like a hinge starting to lose its lubrication. “You’re a funny man, Mr. Carlton! Very funny man.”
“ . . . that musty, small-town video shop set up in the dining room of an old house where someone was likely murdered.”