Most days, it's easy to forget that Max isn't used to going outside, playing in the grass (or sleeping in it, which is more what this lazy lump of a dog does now). He's so damn comfortable in here. It's all he knew. Different bases, different shatterdomes. Metal hallways and stale air. It was no life for a dog, but he kept my son company when Chuck didn't want anyone else around, and Max never knew any different. He seemed happy enough to tag along, as long as he had us around.
I'm finding out here that he's very fond of mud. Less fond of baths.
REY:
You're good with machines like you were in Storybrooke, right?