Heron Lake Plateau Never mind the slacks and bashers

As he raised his head and then turned back to shore, he spotted Niamh had appeared while his back was turned.  There was a face he hadn't seen in a while.  A lot happened since they'd met, but it was hard to tell whether his promotion and all that garbage would do much of anything.  He and Niamh had gotten along, sure, but that was like one meeting and a passing stare.  Quixote headed back to shore, finding a reasonably dry spot as he slowly lowered himself to the ground like some ancient creature.  As his ribcage brushed the ground, he stifled a not-quite-yelp of pain as a clump of grass hit a sore spot.  At least once he got settled it wouldn't hurt any more -- unless he bumped it again.  This was so stupid.

He'd almost certainly been told what happened to Screech, but Quixote wasn't sure what to think about it.  He hadn't left a particularly good impression -- just some kid who couldn't get his life together and was too stubborn to let people help.  Honestly, he figured Screech was going to screw something up and get the boot or end up on the wrong end of someone's fangs again.  Call him a pessimist but just... It didn't seem like Screech would have the longest lifespan for a wolf.  He still -- a pause.  Should he be nice about it?  His default setting was gallows humor, but if she actually gave a damn about that fool, -- out of it?  He sounded a little perplexed that was even the right set of words.  It wasn't like Screech was probably gonna last that long if he couldn't eat or drink.