A few regulars nursed their drinks at the counter, but the place was quiet for a Tuesday night.

He set the glass down, tossed the rag over his shoulder, and jerked his head toward the back.

The key was still in your pocket, worn smooth from all the times you'd pressed your thumb against it. The back door waited at the end of the hallway, unmarked, unremarkable.

You unlocked it. The hinges groaned.

The back room smelled of cardboard and dust. Towering stacks of wine boxes lined the walls, leaving only a narrow path. But you knew the way. Past the Chardonnay, past the cracked mirror, past the pile of old bar mats.

There. A corner curtained by boxes, just like always.