Radley got up and hugged him, and Josh hugged back, glad for his friend, awkward with the affection. Radley wiped his eyes and sat back down, and Josh was grateful when the conversation turned to Radley’s evil Human Behavior professor. That was one of the best things about Radley, Josh thought as he watched his pal talk with great animation. He carried the conversation 90 percent of the time.

As they were leaving, Radley said, “Let me just go say hi to that guy over there.” Josh paid the bill, then tried to wind his way through the packed bar to get to the exit. It was deafening in here, and he hated crowds. His anxiety jumped, but he reassured himself that he’d be home soon, on the couch with Pebbles, not a goddamn Christmas ornament in sight.

He waited behind a server, who was squarely blocking his way. Josh went to her left—nope. Right—nope. He tried to make eye contact with the people at her table, but they stared at her like she was the living Buddha as she answered their questions.

It was taking a long time. He tried to move past again, but the server apparently had no peripheral vision, because she, too, seemed oblivious to his presence. She was detailing the Eddy’s elaborate drinks. “Um, that one has, uh . . . um . . . butter-washed Wild Turkey, maple, Pierre . . . something, and some . . . chocolate shavings? No, bitters! Chocolate bitters. It sounds gross, but, um, I’ve heard it’s really good.”

The maître d’ glared at her. It wasn’t a great sell, to be fair. Josh tried once more to get around, but nope, she was completely blind in her left eye, apparently, and the people at her table still would not make eye contact with him. He sighed and stared at the server’s long dark hair, which was pulled into a braid. Cut that off, and he’d have a good strong rope.

“Okay,” said the waitress, “so you do want the cinnamon in it, but not burnt? Um, I’ll ask. Sure! Okay. But Chopin, and not Grey Goose. Got it. And Chopin is gin? No, no, of course. It’s vodka. Got it. And you want lemon in that? Juice or a twist? Got it.”

He doubted she did. The patrons were being ridiculously particular, especially given that the restaurant was jammed.

Finally, she turned and almost bumped right into him. “Sorry, was I in your way? Oh, hey! It’s you! Hi! How are you?”

It was the woman from the fun run, the one with the ancient dog in a baby stroller, who’d helped him when he passed out. “Hi,” he said. “Right. The race.”

“Yeah. You fainted! How are you now? I mean, obviously, you lived. But you were okay?”

“Yes. A little dehydrated, that was it.”

“Good. I’m glad.” She stood there a minute, smiling at him.