He was quiet for a moment.
"Sometimes it doesn't matter. Sometimes the feeling is enough."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've forgotten things too. Things I did. Things I saw. Things I wish I could forget and things I wish I could remember. And I've learned that the feeling is the only thing you can trust."
"That's not very comforting."
"No. But it's true."
The bell above the door chimed.
I looked up, and he was there. A man. Not tall, not short. Not young, not old. His hair was brown, his eyes were brown, his clothes were the kind of clothes that didn't attract attention.
But his eyes were watching.
Watching me.
"Welcome to The Lost Hours."
Matt's voice, smooth and practiced.
"What can I get for you?"
"Whiskey. Neat."
The man sat at the end of the bar.
"Coming right up."
Matt poured the whiskey and set it in front of the man. The man picked it up, drank half of it in one swallow, and set it back down.
His eyes never left me.
"You're new." His voice was flat, "Started this week."
"Yes."
My voice came out small.
"I'm training."
"Matt training you?"
"Yes."
"He's good at that. Training strays."
"I'm not a stray."
"Aren't you?"
He smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes.
"You've got that look. The look of someone who's been lost for a long time. Someone who's looking for something they're never going to find."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
