“College,” he explains. “Deferment. I’m sure you know all about that, yeah?”

“We don’t have the draft anymore,” I say, using my thumb to clean his face. His blue eyes cross, focusing on my thumb, then settle on my face, watching me, not my finger, until I’m done. “But I do know about it.”

“Because this war is a freakin’ shit show,” a man slurs next to Michael. He’s wearing a jacket, military issued, but I can’t tell what the patches and letters mean.

I do know what the missing right arm means. I want to tell him, Thank you for your service, or something, but the words don’t come out. It’s like I feel embarrassed to say something like that to a veteran. Or maybe it’s because I know that his sacrifice, in the greater picture, didn’t stop anything.

“Damn straight, Johnny,” Michael says, patting his back. Johnny grumbles, brushing off Michael’s hand. When a waiter in a tight shirt walks by, Michael taps his thigh and juts his head toward Johnny. “His drinks are on me.”

“You got it, sugar.”

Michael turns back to me. “It’s exactly like Johnny said. This war is a mess. It’s obvious that it’s going to go down in history as the most fucked-up war ever. I don’t even have to be a time traveler to know that.”

Michael mutters the second half of that statement around the rim of his glass, grinning.

“What?” I ask.

Michael shrugs, nodding to my glass. He raises his hand, brushing hair out of his way. “Not a fan of beer?”

“You could say that.” I remember all the literature about drinking after a transplant. I’ve already been pushing my luck with the other drinks I had with Michael. Plus, he’s right, beer isn’t my favorite thing in the world. I hate the sour taste it has.

“Oh, so now you’re being picky?” he teases, nudging me with his shoulder.

“I’m not in the mood for this, Michael.”

The words come out far harsher than I intend them to, and the way that Michael pulls away and his shoulders tense tells me that he agrees. I sigh, staring at the brown liquid. You only live once, right? A few sips won’t hurt me.

With that, I grab it and take a long drink. It tastes like…yeast, bubbly yeast, but I stomach about three gulps of it. I set it down, wiping my mouth with my arm, and gulp down half the cup of tap water that was put in front of me. Before I can put the glass down, Michael pats my back—hard. Hard enough for water to spill on the front of my pants. That stupid grin, wide and boyish, is painted all over his face.

“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“Absolutely awful.”

“Now you’re just playing hard to get.”