I search the tables and then worm my way toward the middle of the bar, craning to see around a really tall woman in boots and a denim skirt—probably the most dressed up I’ve seen anybody around here. A few people glance over their shoulders at me, and I check to make sure the stubby patch behind my ear is covered, wondering for the second time this week if there’s a stamp on my forehead marked NOT FROM HERE. If I had something in my hand I’d at least feel less awkward.

“You want to order something?” a guy in front of me with a better view of the bar offers.

“Guinness,” I say, loud enough for him to hear me. He leans between two stools and calls down to the bartender.

All this time I haven’t seen one head of dark honey hair resembling Luka’s. Did he take off when I wasn’t here right at eight?

A minute later the guy is handing me a beer. I try to give him six bucks, but he waves it off.

“Thanks,” I say, glancing around as I take a long pull off the top, wrecking the clover in the foam.

I scan the group near the door. Not a single familiar face. Not that many faces around here are familiar to me. But even though it’s packed and some chick to my right is wearing a perfume that knocks the smell of fried food right out of my nostrils and a part of me feels lame for being here by myself, new energy is jittering up from my stomach, making me wonder why I haven’t wandered into town—even alone—at night before.

Because you’ve spent the last month moping around like a depressed, sleepwalking convalescent. And then you learned your life was in danger and faceless others were depending on you.

And maybe I shouldn’t be here. As good as it feels to have waded into the human current for a brief swim, maybe sticking out—alone—in a crowd doesn’t qualify as the quiet life.

But I also came here for something.

The girl with the perfume is telling some story to a guy, and when she laughs she falls away and almost crashes into me. She grabs my arm to steady herself. Beer sloshes over my hand. “Sorry!” she says, but then she smiles and I think she’s more sober than I gave her credit for.

“I’m Keri,” she says, leaning toward me so I can hear her, and offers me her hand. I shake it as the guy she was talking to takes me in over the rim of his beer.