The restaurant’s dim light created sharp shadows, brightened only by soft pot lights and flickering table candles. The music was classic jazz piano and horns. Hard to believe I’d had an art show here two months ago. Felt like a lifetime now.

I walked up to the bar and ordered two shots of tequila. The bar was full tonight. Not a surprise on a Friday that was one of the first warmish evenings Richmond had seen this year.

The bartender, Chip, wore a light-blue collared shirt, khakis, and an eager grin. He was a prep who looked like he had driven too far east on I-64 and missed all the suburban exits.

Chip set up the shot glasses and filled each with a generous pour. He had flair—there was more than met the eye to the Boy Scout who had clearly heard about my birthday ritual. I settled on a barstool, knowing I’d have to make my way to the banquet room soon or Brit would hunt me down.

I glanced around at customers who were as prone to wearing suits and ties as they were torn jeans and graphic T-shirts. That was typical of Richmond’s Manchester district, located on the south side of the James River, across from the city’s financial district. Most of the residents were drawn by the district’s artistic urban vibe and river views.

The bar’s door opened and slammed hard.

Panic. It rushed me from out of nowhere, seizing my muscles and constricting my chest in tight strips of invisible rope. I pressed my foot on the bar’s footrest, as if pushing against my car’s accelerator, ratcheting an imaginary speedometer’s needle to nearly fifty miles an hour, a dangerous speed on the city’s narrow side streets.

Lights reflecting in the mirror behind the bar conjured headlights in my Jeep’s rearview mirror. The memory was hard to grab, but I knew my fogged brain, fragmented by adrenaline, registered that I was being chased. He’s going to kill me. I need to get away. Get help.

A man sat on the barstool near mine. New Guy glanced in my direction and unsettled my nerves more. I hadn’t hit the bars in a year, and I was out of practice. My first instinct was to simply retreat to the banquet room, but that would mean facing the buzz saw of birthday streamers and balloons.