There was never an answer.
But I knew he was waiting.
He had to be waiting.
Because if he wasn't, I didn't know what I was doing anymore.
I didn't know who I was.
I didn't know why I was still alive.
12
The First Shift
The afternoon light through the windows was the color of old honey.
I'd been watching it for hours—or maybe minutes, or maybe days, time had stopped meaning anything except the space between heartbeats. The bar was empty except for Matt and me and the dust motes that drifted through the air like tiny ghosts. The stools were polished. The bottles were arranged. The register was closed, waiting for the first customer who wouldn't come for hours.
"You ready for this?"
Matt was behind the bar, his hands resting on the polished wood, his eyes watching me with something between patience and expectation.
"I don't know."
"That's okay. You don't have to be ready. You just have to try."
"What if I'm bad at it?"
"Then you'll get better. That's how learning works."
He gestured to the space beside him.
"Come here. We'll start simple."
The beer tap was cold under my fingers.
Matt stood beside me, close but not touching, his voice low and steady.
"You want to hold the glass at a forty-five-degree angle. Let the beer run down the side. Then, when it's about halfway full, you straighten it out."
"Why?"
"So you don't get too much foam. Foam is the enemy."
"The enemy?"
"The enemy."
He smiled, and it was almost warm.
"Customers don't pay for foam. They pay for beer. So you give them beer."
I tilted the glass the way he'd shown me. The beer flowed down the side, amber and gold, bubbling gently. When it was halfway full, I straightened the glass. The foam rose to the top—just a finger, just enough.
"Not bad. For a first try. You'll get faster."
He took the glass from me and set it on the bar.
