I take a sip of my cider and freeze. I stare at my now almost-empty glass. Oh crap. I know exactly why the cider tastes different. It isn’t sour, it’s alcoholic. I know the drinking age here is eighteen instead of twenty-one, but I never assumed when the bartender suggested it to me that he might be offering a real drink.

The bartender puts two whisky shots on the bar in front of us.

“None for me,” I say, my voice sounding slightly displaced from my body.

“Nonsense,” the old man says. “We did business and now we’re drinking. That’s what you do when you’re on a suicide mission, kid. You enjoy the moments you have.”

I hesitate. I have no reason to trust this guy, especially since there is every likelihood he played me. But maybe that’s a nonpoint; you can’t ever trust Strategia because they will always deceive you…enthusiastically. I glance at Ash, who has started up another conversation at the other end of the room. It’s December twenty-second, my dad has a bounty on his head, we’re all being hunted with no hope for making it home for the holidays or possibly ever. Despite not being able to see any clear path forward, I can’t help but think that my aunt Jo would not only agree about enjoying the moments you have—she would actually get a kick out of this guy and his grumpiness.

“Screw it. Let’s drink,” I say, the world already feeling fuzzy.

“Attagirl!” he says, and slaps me on the back.

“But can you keep a beat?” the old man asks me, and sways.

“Yeeeees. My life is beats,” I say, and he looks like he doesn’t believe me, but he also doesn’t have a better option.

“And you remember your part? ’Cause I won’t have you holding up the tune.”

I grab the bar to steady myself. “Ring ding diddle iddle I de oh, ring di diddly I oh. Then I repeat the last line you sang,” I say emphatically, and hiccup. “Now will you stop blustering at me and grow a pair.”

He chuckles. “Right you are. This is shaping up to be a damn fine evening after all.” He takes one last shot, which he dedicates to someone named Mike Cross, and offers me his hand as I step down from my barstool. Problem is I’m not sure if he’s steadying me or making me sway more.

He lets go of me and sticks two fingers in his mouth, whistling loud and clear. Half the pub turns to look at us. I start clapping my hands in the air to the beat he taught me and he stomps his foot. It only takes a few seconds for some of the other patrons to move our way.