Staring up at mural after mural, reds and oranges and greens, Jack felt that burden of legacy continue. Lines drawn in the sand—separation, alienation; the evidence that people always found reasons for violence. They found ways to hate and hurt each other; they found in-groups and out-groups, gods and goddesses and politics and excuses. Concepts to blame.

Blood. Tradition. Faith.

He remembered bloody knuckles and a split lip and stupid, childish rivalry.

His life seemed very small.

Who was he, compared to this?

The cabbie interrupted his existential nonsense. “Where to next?”

Jack, standing in the shade-cooled street, ruffled his hair. He felt so tired. “Not sure, I guess. I’m supposed to go back to the airport.”

“On and up?”

“Something like that.”

The driver leaned his iron-gray head out of the window and gave Jack a penetrating stare. “Or you could do something else.”

He frowned. “Yeah?”

“Go on, my shift’s about over. How’d you feel about a pint?”

Jack glanced at the wristwatch, nice but unostentatious, that Deb had given him as a graduation gift. He had some time before his next flight. Not much, but—

And he felt...maybe he could go off the plan, a bit.

“All right.”

“Name’s Aengus, by the way. And you?”

Jack realized that in this moment, he could be anybody.

He didn’t know who else he could be.

“Jack.” He stuck out his hand, and they shook.

“Get in, then.”

They dodged through city traffic and pulled up in front of a cozy-looking pub. Aengus flipped his light off.

Inside the pub, Jack noticed a shift, something different from the few bars he and his friends had been able to bluff their way into back home. It felt—there was a warmth, maybe. It was almost the way he’d hoped that Gwynns would be, as if magic would tingle along his skin, welcoming—but this was just a normal pub, nothing particularly extraordinary. But he could hardly describe it, the place seemed...old. Like the earth was singing up to him. He was an alien here; he felt welcomed.

An Irish trad band in the corner was tuning up their instruments. Aengus ordered a couple of pints of Guinness, and Jack watched as the bartender poured them, slow and careful. Creamy bubbles sifted up through dark beer, and he felt like that liquid, thick, carbonated, smoothed out.

He thought about his favorite fantasy novels, and he remembered the rule, never accept food from the fairy folk. He grinned a little to himself, feeling utterly ridiculous. The stout was slippery on his tongue as he took a defiant swallow, the music was lively as it surrounded them, and even if this tiny pub were a place of wildness and trickery and magic, he was content to take the chance.

“So tell us about yourself, Jack.” Aengus licked foam from his lips, the hint of gray whiskers catching drops of beer.