Smitty isn’t smiling at him the way he smiles at everything else. He’s frowning, a deep furrow between his dark brows.

“Sir, you need to pack up,” Joyce says curtly. “I’m shutting down soon.”

The whole bar feels like it grinds to a halt. I’m almost convinced that this guy isn’t even alive—he’s that still. I take a couple of steps closer, ready to ask if we should check for a pulse. But then he moves, his hand dragging up to the bar in slow motion. There’s something familiar about the way he moves. Something about his coat, too, when he pulls it on.

He reaches up to place a few crumpled bills on the bar and my stomach clenches. His fingers are gnarled. His coat is brown. Familiar.

I take a sharp breath that smells of hospitals and death. And then darkness engulfs me.

Total, complete darkness. My hands fly out, my throat tight with panic. I find a chair. A table. It is still pitch black.

“What’s happening?” Harper asks. But it’s obvious. The power has gone out.

“Just hold on,” Joyce says. “Hold tight. I’m getting a flashlight.”

“I’ve got my phone,” Smitty says, and a few seconds later, a beam of light pierces the black interior of the bar. I follow the beam, spotting snatches of bar stools. Chair legs. A stranger’s heavy work boots. Thin, ratty hair under a yellow hat. It’s him.

I can’t breathe. Can’t swallow. He has to be someone else. I have to be mistaken.

“I’ve got mine, too,” Joyce says, and another beam joins the first. They’re scanning the bar, crisscrossing over the tables and chairs. “Just leave the glasses and dishes and get your coats.”

“We’re leaving?” Brecken asks, sounding surprised.

“No power,” Joyce says. “It’s ice that’s done it. Won’t be coming on anytime soon.”

The beams cross again, and then Smitty holds his on the door, asking if we can see our things. We can. Joyce is checking the bar with hers. She clinks glasses. Rustles something behind the bar. Maybe a purse.

Then her flashlight beam swings wide, and I see a flash of cardboard-brown coat. He’s moving. Coming at me. I gasp and stumble back, knocking over a chair and falling on my butt.

Light hits my eyes. I reach up to cover my face.

“I’m sorry,” Smitty says, averting the beam. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“Here’s your coat,” Harper says, and she puts it on me like I’m a little kid.

I don’t argue with her. I’m too busy listening to those heavy work boots, watching that man—the man I can’t be seeing—walk out of the bar without a word or a backward glance.