Introduction

“Are the lights too bright?” The Barkeep asks, but no one’s answering. No one’s even there. Too restless to lean with nothing to clean, she grabs her shaker to try and keep the nerves steady. It gets easier once the adrenaline starts flowing.

Thursday nights are deceptive that way. They start like a whisper then turn into a roar, but there’s no telling when the tables will start turning. She dims the lights by half of a half-step, barely a breath darker.

Across the room the door slips open, yielding to The Patron’s careful step. He scans the space for an empty seat—of which there are plenty—afraid he might shatter the calm if he looks too hard.

He picks the bar. He always picks the bar. There’s something about The Barkeep he recognizes, or thinks he does. Sensing his gaze, she turns around (about time for a customer!) and