(It's entirely possible I've been running around my house singing "The Trolley Song" at the top of my lungs.)

"I mean--" She's got every single part of her uniform on, like every rookie in the history of ever, long-sleeved duty shirt even though it's a thousand fucking degrees in the shade. The hair at the back of her neck is damp, something Sam is studiously Not Noticing. "How was, you know. Working Guns and Gangs?"

"Quieter," Sam says, real pointed. Which works for another two blocks, then:

"Trained any rookies before?"