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We were at Coney Island, me for some hardcore hotdog eating and Niko because I was going. There wasn't really too much to do this time of year; the dead of winter isn't exactly prime time for going to the amusement park. Not really prime time for hotdogs, either, but there was a place that had good ones even when it was around freezing and even spending an hour and a half on the subway wouldn't deter me.
Niko suffered all of this with good grace, and even got some grading done on the train. We ate--or I did, and made an extra show of relishing it whenever he made a mystery meat comment. It was all kind of out of season, and maybe a little forced on both our parts, but it wasn't bad. The Coney dogs were great.
There was one of those automatic fortune-tellers near the hotdog place, and I dragged Niko over to it. C'mon, it'll be like Big, weak cracks like that, so it felt more like old times. I put in a couple coins, it waved its robotic arms around inside its plexiglass box, and it spit out a piece of paper.
Your lucky number is two. Your lucky color is dead. Motto: Fidelitate Coniuncti.