The seat cushion that I was keeping warm was covered in orange substitute leather, and after drinking a respectful percentage of my relocation incentive that the Federal Bureau of Investigation had so generously deposited into my account that afternoon, I was doing well to keep from falling off of it.

The last of my fifth Manhattan of the evening slid from inside the fancy glass into my mouth, sizzling down my throat. The bourbon and sweet vermouth tasted like loneliness. That at least made me feel at home. Home though was thousands of miles away, and it felt even farther the longer I sat on one of the twelve stools lining the curved bar.

I wasn’t lost though. I was a runaway. Stacks of boxes sat in my new fifth-floor condo, boxes that I had packed with enthusiasm while my former fiancé, Jackson, stood and sulked in the corner of our tiny shared Chicago apartment.

Moving on was key to climbing the ranks in the Bureau, and I had gotten very good at it in a small amount of time. Jackson had been unfazed when I first told him I was being transferred to San Diego. Even at the airport, right before I’d left, he’d promised that we could still make it work. Jackson wasn’t good at letting go at all. He had threatened to love me forever.

I dangled the cocktail glass in front of me with an expectant smile. The bartender helped me set it soundly on the wood, and then he poured another. The orange peel and cherry were in a slow dance somewhere between the surface and the bottom—like me.

“This is your last one, honey,” he said, wiping the bar on each side of me.

“Stop working so hard. I don’t tip that well.”

“The Feds never do,” he said without judgment.

“Is it that obvious?” I said.

“A lot of you live around here. You all talk the same and get drunk the first night away from home. Don’t worry. You don’t scream Bureau.”

“Thank God for that,” I said, holding up my glass. I didn’t mean it. I loved the Bureau and everything about it. I’d even loved Jackson, who was an agent, too.

“Where did you transfer from?” he asked. His too-tight black V-neck, manicured cuticles, and perfectly gelled coif betrayed his flirtatious smile.

“Chicago,” I said.

His lips pulled back and puckered until he somewhat resembled a fish, and his eyes widened. “You should be celebrating.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be upset unless I run out of places to run to.” I took a gulp and licked the smoky burn of bourbon from my lips.

“Oh. Getting away from your ex?”

“In my line of work, you never really get away.”

“Oh, hell. He’s a fed, too? Don’t shit where you sleep, sweetie.”

I traced the rim of my glass. “They don’t actually train you for that.”