Kavinsky uttered a noise that, in any other situation, might have qualified as a laugh. He scrubbed the back of his neck and tried to think how to phrase what had gone through his head without making things out poorly.

"Um. I thought if I got him off, I could--I could get his keys off him, and drive him home." This time, the laughter was real, short, breathy bursts of hysterics. "How stupid does that sound? God. Who--who the fuck does that?"

He did. He had, now, and a few times in Henrietta. He tilted his head back and looked at the ceiling.