Tiny dynamite

Duncan seems to be recovering well from his tryptophan problems. His parents took him to Toronto over the weekend so he could have Bajan non-poultry food with his relatives, as well as a trip (courtesy of Perdita and some contacts she has with the Barbadan consulate) to see the Leafs lose at the Air Canada Centre. I haven't been doing much with him besides help him out with his homework. He's been catching up on what he missed when he was under Eva-thrall.
Arne's been over a lot to watch World Series games with my father. My father has one set of theories about baseball, most of which involve decades worth of statistics. Arne's are much simpler.
"They really should let magicians pitch. I could hide tobacco juice on my hands a hell of a lot better than Kenny Rogers can." My father pointed out that there was no proof, even with the replays, that Rogers or any other pitcher was using illegal substances on the ball. "Ha," was all Arne said. They were watching that game in the living room, since my mother was working late. Arne was getting tanked but there was no sign of Wilco.
"Where's Wilco?" I asked when I went downstairs to get an apple.
"Oh, he's back at the apartment catching up on episodes of Hockey: A People's History," Arne said. "Every rabbit's got to have a hobby." He had taken a cab to the house. I went back upstairs and finished up my English homework.