It’s not like he keeps close track of what he’s got with him on this trip, let’s be honest. It seems super-likely to him that he left a pair of socks behind at the last gas station restroom where they washed up and he tried to rinse them. And that t-shirt, like, it probably got kicked behind a speaker or something and nobody noticed it. He’s distressed about the hoodie, can’t imagine where he lost it, remembers huddling to sleep under it but can’t remember what happens after he woke up, he’s always fuzzy after waking, he could have flung it out of the van in a sleep-induced fog.
“Motherfucker,” he pouts, because it’s not like he has money for a new hoodie.
“What’s tangled up in your bonnet?” Joe asks him.
“That’s not a saying,” Patrick says, but answers anyway. “I left my hoodie somewhere. I don’t know.”
“That smelly one with the ripped sleeve and three separate coffee stains?” says Joe.
Patrick is offended. The hoodie was beloved. That was why it had three coffee stains.
“Because Pete’s got it,” Joe continues nonchalantly.
“Huh?” echoes Patrick blankly.
“You know.” Joe bites into an apple, looking down at the book he’s reading. “Pete takes your clothes.”
Patrick blinks. “Pete does what now?”
“Patrick, Patrick, Patrick,” sighs Joe, and turns a page of his book, and does not elaborate.
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