“Look, nobody calls me Gail either. So what do people call—”

“Padgett,” she says.

“Padgett. As in …?”

“My middle name, from my mom, her maiden name. As in, Padgett, let’s go look for a barrel.”

“I’m sure it’s in the van.”

“Well, this is a short, unsatisfying mystery.”

“There are other things, too, in my van.”

“Ooh,” Padgett says, and raises her eyebrows. Her eyes sink deep, raccoony and insomniesque. They go through a small pair of curtains under an Exit sign gussied down with cobwebs.

“Like mouthwash,” Martin says.

“Is that for, what’s the drink, Grasshoppers?”

“It’s for you,” Martin says. “It’s all over your breath. It’s none of my business, but pour out the vodka.”

Padgett looks at him like middle school, guidance counselor, detention. “Vodka?”

“V-O-D,” he spells, “ka. It’s a basic alcoholic staple and you have some in your pocket, so stop.”

“That’s cough syrup. I have a cough.” She gives a tiny hack but then cuts it out. “What the hell,” she says. They’re outside now, in back. Beside the bright-painted catering vehicle is a beat-up van, very kidnappy looking, except for bags of ice piled up outside like they’re giving the snatched kid one last tailgate party. Padgett pours out the stuff into a gray dusty patch, ashes maybe.

“It’s none of my business,” Martin says again. “It’s just, the breath. You want to sneak something, the tequila drink has rosewater in it, or—”

“Or just knock it off is what you’re going to say.”

“That’s right,” Martin says. “I’m a barman who tells people to stop drinking. I hope to become a doctor who’s against medicine, and then a nomad who stays home.” The lock works, and the van opens up. There is not much there, and none of it is a barrel. An old milk crate guards the left rim, and Martin reaches in and hands her a bottle of mouthwash. Padgett swigs and looks at the rustling scenery. It is not dark out, but it is darker in the Grove than up on the streets. The clubhouse has a fancy shape, bound to be a spooky shadow, and the porch, where people will smoke and escape the music, is empty but still creaking. She puts her hand in her hair and lets the green sharp mint from the bottle tide over her tongue.

“There was,” she says, “some cough syrup in it.”

“I just don’t want to see you fired.”

“Oh, I don’t care about this job,” Padgett says. “I’m just doing it for the money.”