Whatever this man wasn’t, he was Russian, and Russian drinking culture was consistent and homogenous, and in Russian drinking culture, vodka wasn’t something drunk alone or as an everyday thing, like wine with meals. Vodka needed an occasion, even if an occasion required creative invention. The bottle was never left unfinished, and he was parched and thirsty, his stomach empty, and there wasn’t another soul or sound in this whole damn building. It was a lot of vodka.

“Sit,” the man said again.

Jack did as he was told.

The suit took a seat within reach of the black-blotch pouch.

He picked up the bottle, poured vodka into two small tumblers, handed one to Jack, lifted his glass, and said, “Za vstrechu.”

To our meeting.

Vodka required an occasion, and meeting was just the first of them.

Jack mimicked the raised glass.

“Za something, something,” he said.

The suit exhaled loud and obvious and tipped the liquor down his throat. He followed the vodka with a pickled green tomato.

Jack eyed the tumbler.

Drinking culture said nothing else happened until everyone at the table had emptied their glass, but that was Russian culture, and he wasn’t Russian.

The man said, “Drink.”

Jack said, “I’d rather not.”

“Drink, or you insult me. You do not wish to insult me.”

Jack tossed back the vodka.

The liquor went down nice and smooth, counterfeit water to desperate thirst in a way that left him dangerously wanting more.

The man in the suit nudged a plate of piroshki forward. “Eat,” he said.

Jack picked up a pastry, shoved it in his mouth, and took a second for good measure, bolting meaty-greasy goodness down faster than he should have in an effort to get ahead of the alcohol.

The suit poured another round. He raised his glass. “Budem zdorovy,” he said—another toast, another occasion for vodka.

He swallowed the liquor and thumped the glass down hard.

Jack raised his own in kind and then returned the tumbler to the table, vodka untouched. He said, “Perhaps some water?”

The man barked out a laugh. “Water is for women. Drink.”

Jack pushed the liquor toward the table’s center.

One shot and he was already feeling the warmth enough to want to call shenanigans on water is for women and introduce the guy to his real sister.

Jill was capable of a lot of things. Copious drinking was way up that list. She’d put this guy under the table. But she wasn’t here, and he couldn’t call her, and for him, there’d be no winning, definitely not while dehydrated on an empty stomach.

He picked up a cucumber, stuffed it in his mouth, raised the glass in mock toast, and said, “There’s vodka thirst, and there’s water thirst. I’ve got both kinds.”

The man in the suit leaned in. “You offend me with refusal.”