“I'm not a pickle and I'm not some kind of puppy or hamster or mouse,” Dillon mused in annoyance, as he stretched his back. “I guess it's the lesser of two evils, though. You should care. Or else I'll just whip out those old nicknames mom and dad used to use on you.”
He paused, as if contemplating. “What were those? Bubbles and Zachy-Poo?” Two—or three, as it were—could play the humiliating nickname game.
Feigning hesitance, Dillon heaved an overdramatic sigh, then reached up to unlock the cell door. “Alright, alright. I like the use of my arms and legs and don't like being embarrassed, so you win. Jeez, when did we wake up from the fucking apocalypse and end up in a John Wayne movie?” he asked.
With a laugh, Dillon rolled his eyes at the concept of being forced to spend time with his siblings. “Alright, alright.” He'd probably have put up more of a fight if the third sibling was here, but he didn't say that. “What are siblings for if not to make your life hell, right?”
Pick what they did. Dillon chuckled. “I've never been good at that. You guys choose, as long as it's not something that'll humiliate me.”