I haven’t eaten so I stop in at the first place I see, a bar called The Black Bury Pub, and go sit on a stool near a corner. The bartender is a thin guy, late thirties, in a tight black t-shirt and black jeans. Maybe that’s the uniform given the name of the place. His face is long, under tousled and lanky black hair. He could be Latino, or Native American, or a white dude with a dye job. He’s not very sociable or maybe he’s just picking up on my vibe because he takes my order quickly, a burger, fries, and a coke, before going to check on his other customers.

  The place is about half full. TVs around the walls and over the bar flicker with various sports events. I’ve never really been into all that. I’m the more bookish and video gamey type of guy. Still, it’s something to look at, however disinterested I might be. It’s doubtful I’d recognize any of the teams anyhow. I decide to do my best to just mind my business the rest of the evening.

  The aethings settled down the farther I got from the Shelter, but they get excited and more swirly around bars and alcohol, and it’s no different in here. I think it’s because of the booze and how it affects human behavior, kicking possibility up a few notches beyond what’s normal as dying brain cells free the social and personal constraints we call inhibitions. I was never much of a drinker, but now I’ve given it up entirely. If there’s anybody in this bar aside from alcoholics that should stay sober, it’s me.

  I take a pull at my coke and smack my lips. Like most bars I’ve ever been to, the mix is a little off toward the syrupy side. It’s not doing any favors to my teeth or my stomach, sure, but the sweet caffeine is doing wonders for my disposition.

  What am I going to do about Melanie?

  I could go back there after I eat. Maybe I should pay and leave right now. Take my food in a doggy bag. Half of me wants to. Okay, most of me.

  If anybody would understand why I ran off, she would. I want to share that bed with her, even if it’s just sleep. Actually, that’s probably best.

  No. No, it’s not.

  People get hurt all around me. For everybody who gets out of a rough marriage like Candace did or strikes it rich in the stock market like the Wests, there’s somebody who has their car totaled by a meteorite like Gerry or kidnapped by human traffickers like Monica.

  And me? I’m a dumpster fire.

  Before all this, if anybody asked me who I was, Who is Benjamin Pierce Walker? I’d have said I was a journalist just starting out. That I’d published a few independent pieces and had a gig at the local paper. That I was a son to my parents and had a few close friends. That I was basically a good guy. Maybe on the better side of average Joe.

  What the fuck would I tell someone today? Wannabe knight errant? Adventurer? Slayer of evil men, with a heavy emphasis on the ‘slayer’ bit? Is that it? Is that all? I didn’t know. All I could say for sure was that I was trying to do the right thing and failing miserably at it. Should I get involved with somebody without knowing? Without being okay with myself? Most people my age aren’t looking for a dalliance any more. They’re looking for a partner. Marriage. And Melanie’s older than I am by at least five years.

  What if she wants kids?

  Do I want kids?

  Dude, pump the brakes. I haven’t even taken her out on a date yet, right? It’s not all that. How could it be? Right? It isn’t, is it? Shit. Maybe it is.

  “Well, look who it is,” says a voice in my ear. It’s a familiar raspy bass. I know I’ve heard it before but can’t place it.

  I turn to find the guy Officer Opie and I abandoned in the mud for a while earlier that day. He’s swaying on his feet and his breath? If I struck a match, his head would explode. He changed his pants, but wearing the same shirt, or he’s got more of the same. The script on the left side of his chest reads, “YMCA.”

  His thick finger is outstretched, pointed at me, less than an inch from my sternum. “I thought that was you.” He is a very big man.

  “Look, I’m sorry about the mud, I—.”

  “She left me.” He blinks. “No, I mean, she’s asked me to leave.”

  “Sorry to hear that, I—.”

  He waves his hand. “Mud was good. Was a good thing. Might’ve hurt you, man.” His face flushes and his arms and torso swell up. “I was so angry.” He looks around, bewildered for a moment. He pushes his fingers through his dark brown hair, then the finger’s back at my chest, not quite touching. “Angy at you, but why? What did you do? Ask my wife if she was okay? Because you were worried about her? That I would hit her? You did right. Me? When did I become that guy?”

  There’s movement behind him. A smaller hand finds purchase on a biceps the size of a cantaloupe. “Hey Grant, I was wondering where you’d — oh! Hey, it’s the pizza guy.”

  The newcomer looks too young to be in the bar by himself. There’s a thick mop of dark curls piled on his head. Beneath is a triangular face and sharp chin. A band T-shirt and jeans. I know I’ve met him. Pizza guy?

  “James Monroe,” says the kid. “No relation.”

  “Right,” I say, remembering. “You gave me a ride.” He sure did. Straight to the biker house, Amir, Otter, and my first bus full of people rescue.

  “And you shared your pizza,” says James. He looks over at Grant. “Ma Barker’s.”

  Grant nods contemplatively. “Ma Barker’s the shit.”

  James frowns at me and says, “My buddy Grant here’s had a rough day.”

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  “I don’t know what to do!” Grant howls.

  I sigh and ask, “You’re confused? Need to make some big choices?”

  Grant nods and almost loses his balance. James has to catch him before he falls over.

  “Then, you can’t do that like,” I gesture up and down at him, “this.” I wave my hand for the barkeep, who hurries over, afraid there’s a problem. “Yeah, we’re gonna need, like, all your coffee.”

  ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ? ?

  Grant’s story comes out with more coherence after the third cup. He’d been an up-and-coming chef, of all things. Fresh out of culinary school, he first worked his way up through the restaurant scene in Cleveland, starting out as something called a commis chef for nearly a year, before becoming a chef de partie, whatever that is. He did that for sixteen months. That’s when he met Leena. She was a waitress and going to classes part-time, studying to be a librarian. They married right when his employer, some famous food dude Grant couldn’t believe James and I had never heard of, was talking to him about becoming a sous chef. The problem developed when Grant wanted a couple of weeks off for his honeymoon. The trip to Fiji had been a gift from Leena’s parents, but Mr. Rose, Grant’s boss, felt like that was too long and demanded he cut the vacation in half. Things became heated when Grant refused. When he got back, he found that not only had fired them both, but he suddenly had a reputation of being difficult to work with. His meteoric rise in the industry fell to earth in much the same way as the one that ended the dinosaurs.

  Being a chef is a calling. Having it stripped away like that knocked his life out of control. He became angry. He’d been into martial arts and exercise since childhood, feeling that it all hung together well with his enthusiasm for cooking and food. If his existence was a platform, those were three of the four supports for it, with the fourth being Leena. She found work easily enough. Everybody always needs wait staff, but the only thing Grant could find was as a fitness instructor at the Y. He liked the job, and even persuaded his superiors to let him teach a self-defense class on the weekends for some extra cash. The plan was to earn some money and move some place outside of Mr. Rose’s considerable influence. Like Guam.

  Grant got bitter about it all and insisted that he didn’t hold what happened against Leena or her folks, but as Grant broke into rages at inopportune times, his wife began to suspect otherwise, and it was scaring her. That incident in the parking lot that morning had been it.

  “She asked me to leave,” says Grant, tears streaming down his face. He looks at James and then me. “What am I supposed to do?”

  James bites his lips, leaving it for me to say. “Grant, you love Leena and want her to be happy, right?”

  He nods.

  “Then you gotta leave.”

  He objects, but I cut him off. “No, look, you’re fucked up. Agreed? That’s what you’ve been telling us.”

  He nods.

  “Okay then. You’re fucked-upedness is fucking up your life and hers. You see that, don’t you?”

  He nods.

  “Well, then she’s not talking about divorce yet, right? No lawyers have gotten involved. No kids?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Maybe your future is with her, and maybe it’s not.” I put a hand on his arm. “That’ll be up to her, man. All you can do is unfuck your life.”

  I feel good about this. It’s so much easier fixing somebody else’s life than dealing with your own. This is helping people. This is what I should do, for myself and others.

  Grant snorts. “How?”

  “The first thing we do is, as soon as you’re totally sober and calm, we go get your stuff like she asked. What did she tell you about that?”

  “That she wouldn’t be home until tomorrow night. That… she didn’t want to see me. That whatever I wanted to take I should grab before then.”

  “Right. You take everything definitely yours and leave anything that there’ll be an argument over.” James puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t try and do any manipulative stuff, Grant. That’s not you, man. Leaving something behind so you can get it later or whatever? She’ll see through all that, and you’ll have insulted her intelligence. Ben’s right. You sober up a little more and I’ll go with you tonight.”

  I think for a moment. “I’ll come too. That way it’ll be done quicker. I got nothing else going on.”

  Grant looks at me. “Really? I just met you.”

  “Least I could do after the mud this morning. Besides, you could use the help and the company. Do we need a truck?”

  Grant shakes his head. “I don’t exactly have much, though. My clothes. My knives and some other gear. You’re right. I can’t take anything else from her.”

  “It’ll all fit in my car then,” says James.

  We all fall quiet. I eat one of my few remaining French fries. Grant finishes his coffee. James turns his glass of pop on the bar and stares into space.

  “Do…. Do you think I can unfuck my life?” says Grant. “And maybe get Leena back?”

  James and I look at each other.

  James shrugs. “I know Leena pretty well, Grant. She’s pissed, yeah, but half of that isn’t aimed at you. When your life fell apart, hers did too. I bet she’s madder at Mr. Rose than you are. She loves you but….”

  “But I’m toxic right now.”

  James flinches.

  I shake my head. “That’s probably too strong a term. Maybe. You’ve suffered a blow. You need time to adjust and grieve. I know.”

  Grant glances up at me.

  “I’m not from here.”

  “Bury?”

  “No. This world.”

  Grant gawks.

  James says, “Dude, I heard of that! Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Goddamn, that sucks,” breathes James. “Wow. So, you lost everybody.”

  “Yeah, but I found a few since. I’m doing better. Therapy helps.”

  James looks at Grant. “You should totally go to therapy. I’ve been telling you that.”

  Grant smirks and arches an eyebrow at me. “And how’s your love life?”

  I roll my eyes and gesture around at the bar, saying nothing.

  The guys laugh.

  I can only manage a faint smile as I remember Melanie’s kiss, and her offer, which was so brave, and how I want her, want to be with her, but have no good way to decide idea whether I should.

  I snort. “Well, now I have something to talk about next session.”

  Grant spreads his hands. “I,” he says. “Have become an asshole. I’m that guy. I yell at and scare my wife. You look guilty as hell too, Ben, but I doubt you’re as messed up as me. Maybe men complain about women not because we don’t understand them, but because we’re chaotic, fragile, fucksticks.” He pours himself another cup of coffee.

  “In my world there was a thing,” I say. “Women were asked this question, right? You’re alone and lost in the woods. Would you rather run into a bear or a man you didn’t know?”

  Grant says, “Man, duh.”

  James is quiet.

  I shake my head. “They almost always picked the bear.”

  “No way.”

  “Yep. You could totally start that whole thing right here in this world right now. You got a phone? There are some women here. Ask them. Record their responses and go viral.”

  James sighs. “They’ll pick the bear. I would.”

  Grant looks at him in shock. “Why?”

  “There are things you can do about a bear. Play dead. Clap your hands and shout. But you never know what a person’s going to do, man or whoever, or what their goals are, especially if you’re out away from any witnesses, and most’ll overpower you.”

  Grant thinks about it. “I don’t understand women, I guess, and I’m a chaotic, fragile fuckstick.”

  It always seemed to me that people who try to understand women as a single entity are setting themselves up for failure. I mean, it’s not like women can be understood any more than men. Yeah, there are… cultural differences, for lack of a better term, and biological ones, but you can only take a person one at a time. As James and Grant natter on about the bear and whether to record potential female responses, I wonder just what the hell I’m doing. I feel guilty about the mud thing, sure, but will hanging with Grant do him any favors? What’s me being around him going to do to him? And James is a nice guy. A good friend.

  How’s it okay to risk these guys and not Melanie?

  What am I doing? I should go.

  I don’t.

  And he thinks he’s the chaotic, fragile, fuckstick?

  Amateur.