“Desperate is just cruel,” he says, subdued. “It’s not like these people have some half-naked hologram serving them tea. It’s a nice voice coming out of a pink box”—I scoff, but he continues—“who encourages and supports and pretends to care. People should take love wherever they can get it, even if it’s a pale copy of the real thing. I knew a guy who loved his dog more openly than his children, because it felt safe. He got his way with the dog every time. The dog never disappointed him, never talked back, and always wagged his tail when he got home, no matter what.” He pauses, rakes a hand through his hair. “The dog’s love helped the man open up, and he learned to show his family love.”

“Are you serious with this after-school special? A dog is not a Pocket Friend,” I say, bristling. “A dog is a living creature.”

He holds my stare with a fair share of bitterness. “I’m just saying: Some shallow kinds of love are gateway drugs to deeper kinds of love.”

I have nothing to say to this, because I’m too woozy to decide if there’s any poetic wisdom in his casual, clichéd use of the phrase gateway drugs. So we sit in awkward silence, and I feel like I’m drowning in the din of the bar. His perfect hands throb on the counter before us.

“So,” he says eventually, taking his glass in hand stiffly, “now that you’re back, do you feel like a real Viloki again?”

A real Viloki. My cheeks burn. Is he really trying to flirt with me? Or is he insulting me? He doesn’t know about Mama. He can’t know. I choke down some of the liquor in my glass—a bit dribbles down my chin, and I wipe it away before speaking. “As opposed to feeling like a fake Viloki?” My chin feels sticky, and I can’t stop myself from rambling on. “I feel like I belong nowhere, to be honest.” Nowhere but with my ruined family—these people I know next to nothing about. I cough and glance at Tai, shooting her a Save me look, and she purses her lips, as if to say Buck up; I’m having fun, before breaking into a magnetic smile again and leaning into Linos. My eyes travel to Hérrakí, to see if he’s drawn to her face like so much of the rest of the room, but he’s still staring at me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks unexpectedly, as the background music rises around us into something off-kilter and vaguely carnival-like.

This registers as an accusation, as an unkind observation, and this sends a dagger up my throat. “I just don’t want to be interrogated by someone I hardly know,” I say, turning to him. The faces behind him look like paper masks as the lighting dips.