literal mcpriceley trash

plane

Connor leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes.

Did he just spend nearly two years with the great Kevin Price, thinking maybe, maybe, he didn't have to turn it off after all? But Kevin was so expressionless as he left. Perhaps it was stupid to hope.

He sighed, getting his traveling journal out from his bag in the overhead compartment, and opened it to the first page, where a photo of the Ugandan village he'd stayed in was taped. There were various written entries, more photos of the other elders, a picture of the picture of Jesus Christ above their door, and finally, Kevin. And Arnold, yeah, but Kevin. He had even managed to take a picture of Kevin covered in a villager's blood. And one of Kevin reading, and eating (a bagel, because donuts are the devil's food), and teaching the converted villagers, and just Kevin by himself doing nothing.

Connor turned the page, but it was just more Kevins, gosh, he didn't think he took so many. He continued turning through the pages, finding more written entries,  several texts from Nabulungi, more pictures of the villagers, one of Elder Poptarts eating pop tarts, playing connect four (they have this as a prop I'll fight you about it) with Elder Zelder and Gotswana, and the last page, one with all the elders' contact details.

Including Kevin's.

Later, he told himself. I'll text you later.

He shut the book.