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Summary
He mutters, "I'm not letting go until you tell me what you're going to do when you've crossed state lines."
"I told you," Robby huffs, "Beer. Hot apple cider. Maybe a chicken pot pie on the porch of some good Samaritan who takes pity on me."
"Yeah? Chicken pot pie?" Jack hums, raising his eyebrows, receiving an affirming nod from the other. "Gonna go on a stereotypical-ass spirit journey? That's what you're going to do, Michael? That's the reason you hugged me like that? Like you were savoring it?"
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And Michael Robinavitch would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren't for Jack Abbot.