Mathieu nods to a hulking bouncer outside a club bursting with young and beautiful patrons dying to get in; we’re admitted without a second thought. We trail Mathieu through the entry until he leads us to the crowded bar. A red claw twitches from the same bartender’s neck. I squint past an army of gyrating bodies and spy the heavy metal posters and photographs of animal-print women adorning the walls. We’re back.

“Excuse me,” I shout in French. “But we had three stops on this tour.”

Mathieu shakes his head and points to his ears. He hands us each a shot of something green, tosses one back himself. The boys follow suit, but I eye my tiny glass, feeling my heart beat against the bass’s rhythm.

Mathieu smirks. “It is to relax,” he shouts in English. He mimes gulping it back, then he rubs the belly of his torn Iron Maiden T-shirt like it’s a warm ladle of soup. “Relax. One more stop. You must drink—part of tour.”

I open my mouth to argue with Mathieu, to say I didn’t sign up for alcohol or being obligated to drink, but he crosses his arms. “Part of tour,” he repeats. “No enter without this drink.”

“That’s not fair. That’s not legal.”

He shakes his head to show he doesn’t understand.

“Goddammit.” Not seeing another way, I take a sip. “There. Happy?” Its sweetness contrasts the bitter taste I was expecting. What is the point of this visit? Why did Angela come to this shitty excuse for a historical tour of Paris, paying fifty euros for an hour-long walk of nothing and a shot of something warm and green and altogether delicious that makes me suddenly parched and tickles my insides? The green fairy. Like a scene from one of Angela’s favorite films, Moulin Rouge, this is a shot of absinthe. Instead of a musical number, images of the dead bodies I’ve seen this week jostle behind my eyelids. A girl bumps into me, sloshing the tiny cup.

I hand it back, empty, to Mathieu. He presents another, already prepared, but I shake my head. “No.”

With a wink, and the first show of genuine interaction since I started following his cracked leather jacket, he leans into my ear. “You have need . . . extra relax.” His French tongue grapples with the English, near swallowing the words. The boys, who only got one shot as part of their ticket fee, exchange a glance; I pass this second one to the redheaded boy when Mathieu isn’t looking.

Colors seem brighter as we leave the bar and weave our way through the crowd, while the air feels thicker, covering my exposed skin, my tank top and shorts, like a sleeve. The sip of absinthe ignites my senses by the time we leave the brick courtyard and pass into the alleyway once more, its fierce mint flavor continuing to tingle my mouth.