rotten food, pizza boxes, emptied water and juice containers, expired condiments, over-frozen foods, and a pot of what might have been a soup or a pot roast, he couldn't be sure. After literally running those bags out to the dumpster, he returned for the dishes.

As a child, he'd hated doing dishes more than anything. It wasn't about the food or the germs or the waterlogged fingertips. It was the monotony. As he scrubbed and scraped at food that had been partnered with plate longer than some marriages, he tried to hum with the music or talk to himself to stay engaged. He knew that if he took a break there was no way he would finish, so he kept on, even pretending at times that Ace was behind him, yelling commands.

"Faster, Sergeant!" "What the fuck is wrong wit...

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