Matt opened his eyes, gazed out the window. “What are you doing?” he said. They were parked in the gravel lot of Pipe Layers, Adair’s only bar. Before Charlotte’s murder, Matt’s parents would go there once in a while, usually for a friend’s birthday or a fundraiser for the football team. On a Friday night, the lot was full, the place still the only game in town.

“You look like you could use a drink,” Ganesh said.

“I could use a shower.”

“Come on, just one.”

It was never just one with Ganesh. But Matt liked the company, and the Adair Motel wasn’t exactly the Four Seasons.

“One,” Matt said.

“Sure, sure, sure,” Ganesh said. “I can add this to my list of bars.”

Some people wanted to visit each of the fifty states, some to camp at every national park, some to dine at every Michelin-starred restaurant. But Ganesh strived to have a drink at the weirdest bars in the world. He bragged that he’d been to a bar made completely of ice in Sweden, a bar shaped like a casket in Ukraine, a bar in the trunk of a six-thousand-year-old tree in South Africa, a vampire bar in Tokyo, a bar decorated entirely with women’s undergarments in Florence, and the list went on. He was about to be sorely disappointed.

Pipe Layers looked like Hollywood’s idea of a small-town tavern. It had a long, over-varnished bar with several locals drooping on stools, staring at themselves in the tarnished mirror: weathered farmers, line-workers from the irrigation plant, some saggy-faced old-timers, a barfly. But at the high-top tables and booths, the crowd was younger. Stylish couples—carpetbaggers who worked in white-collar jobs at Adair Irrigation—and casually dressed men and women in their twenties, playing darts and pool.

All of them seemed to stop and stare when Matt entered the establishment. It reminded him of Mexico when the jungle went suddenly quiet: creatures going still from the presence of something that didn’t belong. A threat. The silence lasted only a beat, and the din of the bar returned.

“I have a surprise for you,” Ganesh said.

Matt narrowed his eyes.

From the back of the place came a procession of familiar faces. Kala led the group, looking glamorous as always. Next, Woo-jin towering over her, followed by Sofia in her green military jacket. Curtis, probably the only black guy in the entire bar, was last in line. An inconspicuous group they were not. Ganesh had mobilized the Island of Misfit Toys from Rubin Hall. And they’d dropped everything to be here for Matt. He tried to contain the emotion swelling his chest.

“You didn’t need to come,” Matt said as he hugged Kala, then Sofia. He bumped fists with Woo-jin, who wasn’t one for hugs, and pulled Curtis into a shoulder embrace.