“Hey!” Jamie shouts, uncaring of how loud he is. He sits down on a bench, holding the phone against his ear. “Where are ya? I got, uh, hurt.” He’s not technically lying, there’s a scratch on his upper arm. One that doesn’t even need a bandaid, much less you to come and patch him up, but he wants your attention. “Come here.”

You’re his rival, the one who patches him up, maybe his friend. It doesn’t matter. You spend all your time together anyway. “Hurry up,” he says. Is he drunk?