She sagged against the wooden facade of the building. She wished she had Diane again. The pain in her left arm was making it hard to think or move. She worried that pain meds would cloud her mind, and so she paced herself with them. Anyway, the pain meds the hospital had given her were just a bag of wood chips, and so she doubted their effectiveness.

A blond man with a future shiner across his right eye staggered out of the bar. He stopped near Jackie and looked down the street, cursing under his breath.

“Hey,” Jackie said, pushing off the wall with her back in hopes of not looking so weak, although her pain and the shock of meeting Troy after everything she had learned about him made her sag right back against it. Without much practice to this point in her life, she tried, clumsily, to make casual adult conversation: “You smoke?”

“No, sorry,” he said, looking at her without recognition.

“Neither do I. Don’t know why I asked. I’m sorry. My name’s Jackie. What’s your name?”

“Troy.” His eyes narrowed. “How old are you? Your parents know you’re out at a bar?”

“My dad does.”

He looked out over the empty fields and low, brittle-grassed hills to the always busy 101 and the deepening sky of late dusk behind it, rubbing the back of his head vacantly. He looked concussed, but, more than that, he looked like he knew something he didn’t want to know.

“All right, kid. I got clocked and just needed some air. Gonna head back in and—”

“What’s the deal with everyone here? Why do you all look the same? Are you all named Troy? Do you know Diane Crayton?”

She had so much to ask, like when you run into a favorite actor or author. How do you say everything you’ve wanted to say to a person who has been a big part of your life and doesn’t know you at all?

“Diane,” Troy said, frowning nervously.

“Diane Crayton. From Night Vale. She’s raising your boy Josh.”

“Oh. Well.” Troy nodded, edging toward the door. “How is she?”

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” She let him hear the bitterness in her voice.

“Yeah,” he said, not exactly in response to what she said but just to make a sound.

“There’s dozens of you. Why doesn’t one of you go talk to her? Do you do anything but sit here and drink?”

“This is just who I am . . . um.”

“Jackie.”

“Jackie. I am who you see. I don’t know how to explain it. How to . . .” He grunted. “It’s hard, okay. It’s just a thing I deal with.”

The door to the bar opened and another Troy came out. And then several, if not all, of the Troys came out. They all stared sideways at Jackie.