Wes’ POV
“I’m going to ask you this once and only once.” Manny leaned over me, light shining into my eyes dramatically like he was a cop interrogating me on those shows Mrs. L liked to watch in-between meals and with tea. He was only wearing his ripped-up jeans, and I leaned back to avoid the grease paint smeared all over his chest, neck, and face. “Are you, by any chance, stupid? Like clinically. Medically?”
“Psychologically,” Cameron added, on his phone, legs swung over the edge of our couch.
“Maybe spiritually?” Robin added, playing Jenga with the other members of Death Cloud 9. They were still dressed in their metal dudes, each one corpse painted and wearing all black. Jack-O Lantern, the drummer, seemed to be confused about where to take the next brick. “Could be a spiritual issue.”