Kyle stares blankly at Wade for a moment. Ultimately, he decides not to ask. He's very, very used to just not asking.
"...Oh. Uh. Are you okay, Mr. Reynolds? Like, do you need someone to talk to, or a hotline number or...?" Not that there's any phones here, Kyle. Also it's the 1920s, hotlines aren't yet a thing.
He looks up the beach, then back and Wade. He shrugs. "I'm twenty-three," he mutters. "You seriously have gin on you somewhere?"
I've had that gin.
"...Oh. Uh. Are you okay, Mr. Reynolds? Like, do you need someone to talk to, or a hotline number or...?" Not that there's any phones here, Kyle. Also it's the 1920s, hotlines aren't yet a thing.
He looks up the beach, then back and Wade. He shrugs. "I'm twenty-three," he mutters. "You seriously have gin on you somewhere?"