Sloane was grinning, her emerald-green eyes clear and bright. “You’re not drunk,” I observed. “None of us are. It’s the snow. It turns us into fourth graders. Case in point,” she said and waved both magenta mittens at me. “When’s the last time you did something as undignified as playing in the snow?” “You can take the man out of Knockemout, but you can’t take Knockemout out of the man,” I quipped.
