Carlos

Carlos rides into the backyard the only way he knows how — strapped to your chest in a BabyBjörn, white beanie pulled low, orange shades fogged from the desert heat. Nobody's asking how he got here. Alan's off-frame insisting the tiger likes pepper, Stu's missing a tooth and a fiancée, Phil already lost the rental Mercedes, Doug is presumably on a roof. The Wolfpack was four. It's five now. Pro-fabric, cream-yellow sky, one very calm baby.

Plays like a 7/9 that took Mike Tyson's right hook and got up smiling. Both sides rip — slow side still skating at a 7, fast side scooting like it's late for a wedding at Caesar's. Runs the board, slides through traffic, cuts holes nobody pushes him out of. This is not a sitter. This is a slab that drifts past blockers the way Sidney drifts through a chorus.

Built for the group chat already typing "we are NOT doing it like last time." Bring Carlos. What happens at the cookout stays at the cookout.