“Prick,” I said, glaring at his taillights until I couldn’t see them anymore.

“You’ve been a little off today, Nomes,” Kitsch said. “Something up?”

I shot him a half-grin, appreciative that he’d noticed. “It’s Becky’s birthday today.”

“Becky…” Kitsch thought for a moment. “Your mother-in-law?”

I nodded. “Grief is weird, isn’t it? Her birthday is messing with me, and I got through Matt’s just fine.”

“You should go out. Have a beer. Call her first. It’ll make you feel better. I’d go with you, but Karen’s pissed about the drain. I gotta get some Drano or something.”

“Did you tell Bianca? They’re supposed to be taking care of shit like that,” I said.

He shook his head. “It won’t take but a minute. I can snake it if I have to. I don’t want a bunch of strangers over there working on it anyway. I promised the kids I’d watch a movie.”

I nodded once, and Harbinger and I traded glances. Karen, Dylan, and Emily were killed in a car accident, hit head-on by a sleeping truck driver during one of our deployments. Kitsch refused to believe it, or to go back for their funerals. He never went home again and carried a folded, worn photograph of his family in his breast pocket through four continents and an entire war. I couldn’t blame him. I talked to Matt for the first two years after he passed. We’d had full-on conversations while I cooked dinner, while I took a shower, and while I lay in bed because I couldn’t stand to be alone with my thoughts. Being alone sucked, but the constant one-sided conversations made it harder.

“Good luck with the drain,” I said, opening the driver’s side door of my FJ. I thought about Kitsch while I exited the Complex. I wondered about his evening, if he’d drink himself into oblivion until he couldn’t feel anything anymore, or if he’d settle in on the couch with his invisible kids, ignoring Karen’s bitching about the drain. I would be envious if he could see and hear them, and that recognition made me turn toward McCormack’s.

My keys jingled around my index finger as I entered the bar. Because it was still daylight, the dimness and neon lights inside seemed off, artificial. The music wasn’t too loud to have a conversation, the tables and chairs mostly empty except for the two poor bastards who were trying to drink themselves to death the last time I’d come in. It wasn’t time for the party atmosphere yet.

Jerry stood behind the bar drying a mug with a dishtowel. He smiled at me, recognition lighting his eyes. “Hey slugger. Beer?”

“Yep,” I said, sitting.

“IPA this time?”

“Sure.”