“Because your car’s banged up?” the bartender asks, looking suspicious. “Look, the police have real problems to worry about tonight.”

“This is a real problem,” Josh says, sounding sad. “A person got hit. We need to make sure the police know what happened.”

The concern in Smitty’s eyes deepens to worry. “Where? Is he nearby? Is he all right?”

“Yes, I think he’s fine. I know they called the ambulance, it’s just…” Harper trails off, chewing her lip like she’s not sure how much to say.

I pick up where she left off. “We were there. We witnessed it. One of the people on the scene was threatening, so we left, but we still want to call the police.”

“But you left,” the bartender says, her arms crossed and her lips pursed like she isn’t sure about our story. And it makes sense, because we’re being shady as hell. “We’re not a phone service, we’re a cocktail lounge. So, if you aren’t ordering something—”

“Joyce, for heaven’s sake,” Smitty says, shaking his head and reaching into his trousers to produce a worn leather wallet. He pulls out a couple of twenties and lays them on the bar. “Get them some drinks and a pizza and give them the phone.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” Harper says. “Just the phone would be—”

“It’s Christmas,” Smitty says, shaking her off. “Plus, this weather is the worst I’ve seen in a decade. Both of those situations deserve a drink, and every situation deserves a bit of decency, don’t you think?”

Harper pauses, letting out a slow breath that shakes before she answers. “I think I can agree with that.”

“Good.” Smitty smiles. “Then tell me what you’re having.”

Harper doesn’t ask anyone for preferences. She orders three draft beers and two Cokes. Joyce interrupts right away to tell her they don’t serve Coke, but something called RC, and Smitty laughs and cuts her off.

“You are missing the joy in your name, friend. Now put something wet in front of these kids and shake off that grinchy spirit. It’s the holiday, and I do believe you’re getting a gift.”

“You didn’t need to do nothing,” Joyce says. The way her mouth softens isn’t a smile, but it’s not far off. She looks at us like we’re trouble, but Smitty clearly gets a pass.

“What about that gentleman?” Smitty asks, nodding down at the end of the bar. “He need a refill?”

“No.” Joyce’s voice is low, but serious. She cuts a swift, hard glance at the flannel lump. Given her expression now, her earlier attitude toward us seems positively magnanimous.

“Joyce—”

“He don’t need another drink,” she repeats. “If he does, he can buy it himself.”