#ic: devon

“Don’t even talk to me,” Devon groans, kneading her temples and keeping her eyes closed against the morning sunlight shining on the scene. Getting together for just a beer or two ended up an all-nighter, stopping at a convenience store for a 12-pack and taking it back to her motel room to reminisce their horribly childhoods, warm and hoppy and still fuzzy on her tongue. The only thing stopping her from barfing is that she can’t contaminate the crime scene. “If the next words out of your mouth aren’t ‘I brought you the biggest coffee I could possibly find’ I don’t wanna hear it.”

“There’s that thing,” Devon starts confidently, then stops when she doesn’t know the name of that thing. Pressing her lips into a thin line, she looks up at the ceiling while trying to recall what the hell she’s talking about. They’re a few drinks in at this point. “When a daycare takes all the babies on a walk in those huge wagons that seat, like, nine babies. Babies are strapped in, can’t get away, they might cry but it’s not a disaster getting them from point A to point B. Done it, nailed it, your turn or drink.”

“I hate drinking alone. It’s safer in numbers.”