The question comes from the stool beside yours. Three days later. Same hour. Same seat he took before, like it’s been held for him, though you’ve watched enough people try to sit there tonight to know it hasn’t.

He’s wearing a different suit tonight — charcoal, no tie, sleeves rolled to the elbow. The marks on his face catch the bar’s dim glow, black lines that look less like tattoos and more like something written in a language you don’t know.