"Don’t wanna," Floyd mutters, his voice muffled by the pillow. "M’not in the mood anymore."

On any other day, you might have left him to deal with his mood swings alone, but he has a game in—you check your watch—10 minutes. With a newfound sense of urgency, you pull at his jersey.

"Okay, okay—fine! I'll go!" Floyd relents, surprisingly easily. Noticing the suspicious look on your face, he props himself up, a shit-eating grin spreading across his lips. "But only if Shrimpy comes with me."