After Hannah sold the grocery, Pat held more hard-labor jobs in high school and college than he cared to remember. But with that, along with the veteran pension, they got by. He graduated from Rose Hill and landed an entry-level spot in payroll for American Airlines. Then years of night school, again at Fordham, for actuarial science and a JD. He worked his way up the back office, married Anne, moved them to Fordham Hill, and got Hannah out of the South Bronx and into a postwar on Kappock Street in Riverdale. She died of a coronary the winter before Anne became pregnant with Dan.

Pat looked up at the bar mirror and rubbed the stubble on his cheek, flushed from this new stint of drinking. At the end of the day, Pat believed, the average man, the best he can do is not be a burden. He had a disease, like many, and he had his vices, yes, but an hour or two at the bar was not going to upset the mortality tables of the AMR Corporation.

Okay, one more.

“You all right there, buddy?”

“What now?” Pat snapped out of his reverie.

“You okay? You’re kind of hunched over there mumbling to yourself.”

“Sorry, bad day.”

“No problem, but I think we’re done here.”

Pat had a thought to argue and then groped for his wallet. “That’s fine. Sorry.”

“Just disturbing the peace a little.”

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

“Excuse me?”

Pat blinked—Besides entropy, that’s the answer, right? “Nothing. Just the second coming. That would be the only other way this ends.”

The bartender was having none of it. “Okay, chief. Time to go.”

“I’m going.” Pat stood up with this resolute courage that it all made sense now. “My father—”

“All right, professor, out of here . . .” The bartender started to come around the side of the bar.

“I’m leaving. Take it easy. Okay, wait.”

But a meaty paw was already locked on his arm above the elbow. Out of dark habit, Pat reached for his drink—Still a couple good belts left in that glass—but he was pulled away from it, and the glass went crashing to the floor. The other patrons went silent and watched. A bit of slow motion and blur followed as Pat was returned to Forty-Fourth Street.

“Did I pay you?” he asked, upset at himself.

“You did. Now go home, chief.”

“Did I tip you?”

“Sure you did.” And the bartender disappeared back through the door.