While she imagined most people in Hidehill dealt with the aftermath of the masquerade with therapy sessions and hugging loved ones, Scout chose to deal with it by drowning it. With vodka. Lots of vodka. So far she'd hit that sweet spot between her fourth and fifth drink where the fuzziness began. When her head wasn't full and the music soothed her limbs. In fact, Scout just now found herself maneuvering off the dance floor, having spent more than a few songs jumping and singing and yelling. No one could deny it felt good to yell.

But that next drink, yes that next drink was calling. En route, Scout eyed a man snag the bartender's attention, what she assumed was an order at the tip of his tongue. Bingo. Her chunky heels closed the distance, allowing Scout to stumble into the gap between him and the rest of the bar. Her hand plopped onto his back as she made herself comfortable, catching the bartender before they could go. "Ooo! And a kamikaze pleasee," she said with a smile, first to the employee and then to the man— oh, handsome man. Wait. Familiar handsome man. The brain fog made her take a second but then it was there, her hockey knowledge not failing her. "13." A fact, stated simply, and then a line formed between her brow. "You ever have a kamikaze, 13? You should get another one," she played, nudging against his side. "You'll like it."