"Okay," you say, your mouth dry, "okay. What the fuck is this supposed to be?" Bro smirks at you from the couch. "Dessert," he says. His eyes glow through the douchebag shades he took off some kid you guys ate last month. He pets John's hair absently and John does nothing, a puppet whose strings aren't getting pulled. "Can't tell me you don't want him, kiddo."