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“I think it’ll come out.” Greg rubbed with a tissue at the pulpy stain on Tom’s white shirt.
“Blot, Greg.”
“Can’t you use, like, peroxide?”
“That’s for blood. Not the greengrocer’s month-old overstock.”
“Nice of you to take the ’mater for Logan, though. Selfless.”
Logan’s voice billowed through their driver’s window, asking why they were still in this shitheap of American progress.
“It’s a public park,” Tom said.
“We’re waiting on a few stragglers,” the driver said, staring at them.
“Come, Gregory.” Tom gestured toward the car. “Eventually we all must come to the aid of our benefactors, mustn’t we?”