The place is mostly full when Suzie Q and Johnny Come Lately crash in like cops on a drug bust, Suzie with her bass and Johnny with his guitar strapped across his back, his amp in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other. Everything about the room turns up—everyone starts laughing a bit louder, the cash register dings more often, the Swans move between the tables more. Bottles sometimes drop and sometimes break. It’s Saturday.

Suzie and Johnny march through the bar giving little bits of attention to everyone, and the Wrinklies eat it up like candy. Johnny makes for the bar and kisses Lyall on the mouth before moving up to the stage, giving everyone a different wave or kiss or secret handshake along the way. Suzie’s shtick is similar but she takes a different route, does more talking and dancing, takes more time working the room. Neither of them say anything to me. Which is really fucked up. I mean, you can never tell if people even give a tiny bit of a shit about you. I thought we were friends. Not super-tight like me and Rose or the Duchess, but still. Maybe they only tolerate me because of Jason.

By the time Suzie reaches the stage, Johnny’s negotiated various wires and cables and is tapping the microphone and tuning his guitar. She takes her bass out of its case and starts doing the same while Frances takes a seat behind the drums.

I reach for my beer bottle but it’s empty, so I take the one next to it, accidentally, ’cause I don’t think anyone’s looking anyway . . .

And, like, where is Jason? This is nice; he should be here. I think about calling him, but maybe it would be better to send him a dirty text, or a picture with my top off. No, that’s hideous. I’m not twelve.

Frances taps the drums and the noise in the bar reduces to a grumbly hum with chairs scraping the floor as people move to see better.

Suzie Q puts her mouth to the microphone. “Looks like unuther mighty fine Saturday on the magic Isle of Swan. I seen Wrinklies here reach their eighth and ninth decades between these creaky ol’ walls, but this’ll be a first for me, celebrating a squeaky-green eighteen! Kiddo, fer yer birthday, Johnny and me, well, we didn’t git you nothin’. But my ol’ man here says you might be fond of this.”