“Hey, Ross,” says Alyssa. “Very nice to meet you.” She shakes his hand, as if she is meeting a foreign dignitary instead of an eight-year-old boy. “Would you like a glass of chocolate milk? You can sit right up here at the bar and drink it if you want.”

“Okay,” says Ross, climbing up onto the stool unassisted.

“Since when does Barkley’s serve chocolate milk?” Finn asks.

“Since the bartender got pregnant and started craving it 24/7,” Alyssa says. She pours the chocolate milk into a draft glass and slides it down the bar to Ross like it’s a bottle of Bud. Then she gets another glass and starts pouring a beer for Finn, even though she hasn’t asked for one. Marv shifts in his seat, his synthetic track pants rustling against the vinyl of the barstool. “Don’t even think about it, Marv,” Alyssa says, her eyes still on her pour. “If you talk to him, I’ll rip your head off.”

“I wasn’t going to,” says Marv, lowering his head over his bottle. Finn can see a goose egg growing on his head beneath his thinning hair. She wonders if anyone actually knows who wounded whom.

Ross sits on the stool and sips his chocolate milk, and Alyssa motions Finn over to a table. She hands her the draft, takes a seat, and studies Finn’s nose. “How’s your face?” she asks.

Finn brings her hand to it self-consciously. “Okay,” she says. “How’s yours?” Close up, Finn can see that the area around Alyssa’s eye is caked with makeup, and the purple is actually a lot deeper than it appears.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Alyssa says, motioning to Ross. “That’s Ross, right? Like, Ross Ross? Your nephew Ross?”

“Yeah,” says Finn. “We’re just hanging out. You know, aunt and nephew stuff.” She runs her hands over the surface of the table, where ROBIN LOVES TROY is carved into the wood in huge, sharp letters, underneath which is a smaller etching that says FUCK THE POLICE. Are the two related? Are Robin and Troy some kind of Bonnie and Clyde deal, all crime and sex and adrenaline? Are they still together, running from the law? Probably not. That kind of intensity can’t be sustained for long – it either fizzles out or kills you.

“Dallas isn’t here,” Alyssa says.

Finn digs the tip of her finger into the grooves of the P in POLICE. “Do you know where I can find him?” She doesn’t meet Alyssa’s eyes.

“Finn.”

“What?”