“‘Father,’” Cal read with finality in his voice, “‘it is half of an hour until midnight.’ His daughter led him by the hand into the grand ballroom, where he would join his guests in preparing for the long-heralded new century’s beginning. Thank you.”

Leslie clapped hard. She really was proud of the way that he read, the poise he showed in front of a group, and the casual seriousness with which he carried himself. Jim was right—he didn’t mess around. But to what end?

“Great job,” she said to him when he’d made his way over to her. She gave him a quick kiss.

“Was it okay?” he said.

“Very commanding.”

“But not like in a fascist way, right?”

“Only the tiniest bit,” she said. “A little touch of fascism in the night.”

“Huh,” he said. “Well, I’m glad you liked it.”

She squeezed his shoulder once and moved past him so that he could greet his other admirers, and then went back behind the sales desk where she knew Kim kept a bottle of Jim Beam in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. She took a pull from the half-full (or was it half-empty?) handle, then, before she could register the effect, took one more, holding the whiskey in her mouth for an extra unpleasant second before swallowing it. The immediate consequence was nausea, but then she felt the old pleasant warming in her brain and felt justified in her choice. All of these things that masqueraded as decisions, she knew, were really just inevitabilities.

“You, uh, drop something, Les?” Kim loomed over her.

“Yeah, I think my contact lens is in this bottle of Jim Beam,” she said.

“Could you get out of there before Max sees you?” Kim said. “Come on, man.”

“Feeling a little sad,” Leslie said. She stood up and rested her weight on the low science-fiction shelf. “But I was feeling so good just a few minutes ago!”

“This is a good night,” Kim said. “Whatever it is, you’re overthinking it.”

“I wish I wasn’t such a jerk,” Leslie said.

“Yeah, well,” Kim said.

They followed the exodus out of the store and across the Higgins Bridge. The group walked past the Wilma and the camera store where Marcus’s exhibition was going to be, turned left at the creepy western expansion mural, skirted the creepy Christian coffee shop, skipped the creepy casino, and entered the Rose. The bar was dark and nearly empty, a combination of the early hour and the summer exodus of college kids.

“Shots?” Cal asked the group in general.

“Let me get this round,” Leslie said. “Or at least ours. You want the special?”

“You know it,” he said. Then, because he couldn’t help it, “Thanks, honey.”