My pal Hez prompted me to write this, which is good to shake the brain loose and get me to think about finishing DTRH. Meanwhile, Mal's standing in front of Tracy's parents after bringing their son home. We see the snow falling down. What's he thinking? It was supposed to be 100 words, but, yeah, right.

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Damn but he was cold. Yi qui iceball they stuck people on, expected 'em to make do. If he had folk livin' here, he'd do his damndest to get 'em off, too. But with a plan that had a chance in di yu of workin'. Gorram Tracey'd never had a lick of sense, never.

That'd be his ma, leanin' over him. Use to send him letters sayin' to mind his superiors 'n come home safe. Son of a bitch never much minded anyone less he was gettin' his ass shot off and was callin' for help, the wang be dan. Was always tellin' him to look out. Never mattered. Boy carried trouble like he had a magnet for it. Turns out was only a magnet for Mal's bullet 'n threats aside, that was wrong. That was twenty kinds of wrong. This was Tracey, no more sense 'n a Fed's rear end. Made you want to dust him yourself with the stuff he'd pull, but then he'd show with lifted hooch 'n everyone would have a laugh.

Sure as hell wasn't Mal was supposed to end him. Verse knows he'd seen every sad-ass sadistic twist on wrong in the past ten years but none of it... Hell.

Was glad Kaylee gave Tracey's daddy the recording. Said more'n he could, 'n he didn't much feel like talking.

Wasn't Mal was supposed to end him.

He looked to Zoe. It shouldn'a been us.

Shouldn'a been us.

But maybe best it was.

Damn, but he was cold.