I sat. For approximately ninety seconds.
Then Biscuit wandered past, tail wagging at nothing in particular, and I had a vision. It was a beautiful, fully formed vision of the dog perched on a barstool, front paws on the counter, watching his dad's big TV debut like the distinguished gentleman he clearly was beneath all that chaotic mutt energy.
"Come here, buddy. C'mere. Biscuit. Biscuit!"
He looked at me with the resigned expression of a creature who had seen too much.
I scooped him up anyway.
He didn't appreciate it. He whined so loud that three people covered their ears, and one guy spilled his drink.
"What the fuck are you doing to my dog?"
Hog stepped up beside me like a flannel-wrapped mountain, knitting needles in hand, trailing yarn like evidence from a very specific crime scene.
"Giving him the experience he deserves," I said, trying to boost Biscuit higher. Biscuit's legs pinwheeled. "He should see this. He should witness—"
"He's a dog. He doesn't know what television is."
"You don't know that. You don't know his inner life."
Hog plucked Biscuit from my arms with one hand like the dog weighed nothing, like gravity was just a suggestion when you were six-three and built like a refrigerator. He gently set the dog on the floor.
"Stay away from my dog," Hog said, but his hand landed on top of my head for a second—a brief, heavy pat, like I was a slightly less well-behaved version of Biscuit.
"I was trying to enrich his—"
"Away."
I held up both hands in surrender.
Across the room, Juno set up a camera rig on a tripod, her blue hair catching the light from the bar's ancient fixtures. She was livestreaming the watch party for her podcast audience, which meant she was also livestreaming me.
I waved at the camera.
She ignored me.
I waved bigger. Both arms. Full windmill.
"Pickle, I swear to God—"
"The people need to see me, Juno. They crave my content."
"The people will see my elbow in your throat if you don't—" She broke off, adjusting the frame. "I will delete your entire existence in the podcast. I have the technology."
"You wouldn't."
"I've already done it twice this month."
That tracked. I'd noticed some suspicious gaps in her recent episode.
She caught my eye over the viewfinder and winked—quick, barely there—before shooing me away with one hand.
I backed away from the camera, hands still raised, and sat at the bar. Right in front of the napkin holders.
One of them was crooked.
Not by much. Maybe half an inch off from its neighbors. Barely noticeable. I straightened it without thinking.
