The walk from the car to the backyard felt like a death march for Mark. His hips throbbed with a heavy, dull ache from the six "cement" shots, and his face was still puffier than the poison ivy could ever account for.

​As they rounded the corner into the yard, the smell of charcoal and the sound of laughter hit them. Their group of friends—a half-dozen guys they’d known since middle school—were huddled around the cooler.

​"Look who’s back from the dead!" shouted Miller, raising a beer. "How’s the itch, Mark? You look like you’ve been through a car wash without the car."

​Leo didn't miss a beat. He draped an arm over Mark’s shoulder, steering him right into the center of the circle. Mark tried to look stoic, but his red-rimmed eyes gave him away immediately.

​

​"Oh, the itch is the least of his problems now," Leo announced, his voice projecting like a ringmaster. "Our boy here forgot his meds. So, we had to go... long-form measure."

​"Long-form?" Miller asked, grinning. "How many?"

​Leo held up six fingers. Slowly. "Six. And not the little ones, boys. I’m talking about the 'industrial-grade-thick-as-molasses' steroids. The kind where the needle has its own zip code."

​"Six?!" someone whistled. "How’d he take 'em?"

​Leo let out a theatrical sigh and looked down at Mark, who was trying to merge with the grass. "Well, let’s just say I’ve heard quieter reactions in the labor and delivery ward. Mark, why don’t you show them the pitch you hit around shot number four? It was a beautiful soprano."

​"Shut up, Leo," Mark muttered, reaching for a drink to hide his face.

​"He was a fountain!" Leo continued, ignoring the protest. "I haven't seen that many tears since he dropped his ice cream in the third grade. He’s leaning over the table, gripping the rails like he’s on a rollercoaster to hell, sobbing into the crinkly paper. 'Leo, please! It feels like cement!'" Leo mimicked in a high-pitched, mocking wail.

​The Roasting

​The group erupted. "Six butt shots? Mark, you’re basically a pincushion," Miller laughed. "Did he give you a lollipop at least?"

​"He offered me a 'Frozen' sticker," Mark grumbled, finally cracking a tiny, humiliated smile despite himself.

​"And he deserved it!" Leo added, clapping Mark on the back. "By shot five, he wasn't even words anymore. He was just making these little hiccup noises. I actually had to check if I’d accidentally punctured his pride, but then I realized there wasn't any left to hit."

​Leo leaned in closer to the guys, lowering his voice just enough to make sure Mark still heard. "Seriously though, if you guys need a lead singer for a boy band who only hits the high notes when poked with metal, Mark’s your man. He’s got the range. And the waterworks."

​Mark took a long sip of his drink, his face burning. "Wait until you need a physical, Vance. I’m finding a doctor who doesn't enjoy his job this much."

​"Good luck," Leo laughed, grabbing a burger. "But until then, just remember: I’ve got the photos of the 'weeping paper' to prove everything I just said."