“All right, I’ll drop it for now. But if you don’t come upstairs, you know she’s going to—” “To what?” Mom snaps halfway down the stairs. Dad visibly flinches, a slight fear in his eyes when she reaches the landing, crossing her arms. “What’s she going to do?” “Jesus, Grenade,” he turns to her, a sparkle in his eye as he pats himself down. I bite my lip to hide my smile because I know what’s coming. “What are you looking for?” Mom asks, frowning. “Your muzzle,” Dad deadpans, and I can’t help my chuckle.
