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Summary
Jack baps the envelope on his palm. “Your…drivers license?” Robby shakes his head. “It’s not your time for medical. SCUBA? Robby, is there a firearm license in here? 'Cause I know I said I had a headache, babe, but I could probably get it up for my man packing heat." Jack rubs absently at the crotch of his sweatpants, grinning at Robby.
Robby flips the book he was reading onto the couch, scratches at his beard. “It’s my pilots license, Jack, okay?”
