“Doc, how long we talkin’?” Dancer asked.
“You’re kidding me?!”
“This is good news. It’s just a sprain. It could have been a lot worse,” the vet said glancing at the shotgun on his wall.
That son of a bitch, Dancer thought.
The Boss caught the vet’s glance and looked down towards his boots. He patted Dancer on the back and led him out of the office.
“Guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about! I’ll be back in a couple days. Nothing a little ibuprofen can’t fix, right?” he nervously laughed.
Dancer had always been the stronger twin, the more talented, the “born leader.” He had successfully avoided every hazard Prancer threw his way… until now.
“What a kook!” he tried again, but the old man’s silence said it all.
“You’re out, Dance.”
“You’re off the front.”
“It’s not about the ankle, damn it!”
Dancer stopped in his tracks. The Boss lit a cigar.
“Your time is up, Dance.”
“I-I… don’t understand.”
“I can’t have the leader of my sleigh tripping over fucking candy canes.”
And with that, Dancer knew this was not about his brother at all.