“I know.”

She laughed. That wind-chime sound. “Look at you. Grown up.”

“For what?”

Dan ordered a whiskey, neat. The first sip burned like memory.

“You’re late,” she said, leaning against the doorframe.

He stared at it for ten minutes. Then, heart pounding like a teenager’s, he hit send.

“I leave Sunday,” she said. “That’s forty-eight hours.”

The reply came at 2:17 AM. I’m at The Nail tomorrow at 8. Don’t be late, Dan. You were always late.