Outside the Carriage House, Monday afternoon
Bobby? So not a happy camper. He'd pulled his tow truck up in front of the dorm building that John had pointed out on his map. This was, apparently, where Sam lived. And now, apparently, where he was assigned to live.
At least it wasn't room 13. There was only so much stupid irony a man could take.
Boy could take.
God dammit.
He sighed, tugged his cap down further over his eyes, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the old hoodie he'd managed to nab from a pile of Sam's old clothes still lying around in his spare room back in South Dakota, leaned against the truck, and glowered at the building.
Rumsfeld flopped over at his feet and looked tired and confused.
[ooc: Aw yeah, you know it's open, baby.]
At least it wasn't room 13. There was only so much stupid irony a man could take.
Boy could take.
God dammit.
He sighed, tugged his cap down further over his eyes, shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the old hoodie he'd managed to nab from a pile of Sam's old clothes still lying around in his spare room back in South Dakota, leaned against the truck, and glowered at the building.
Rumsfeld flopped over at his feet and looked tired and confused.
[ooc: Aw yeah, you know it's open, baby.]