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“Uh-uh.”

I end up back on the floor. This time, when I rise, my gaze is on the bartender. When I stalk over, he just keeps polishing.

“You,” I say.

More polishing.

“What the fuck is going on here?” I say.

He lifts his gaze, and when he meets mine, his eyes are empty sockets. I stagger back.

“You want answers now?” he says, his voice a strange tone that seems to echo in my head, making some little part of me scream to run, flee, hide. “We had a deal. Answers or home. You chose home.”

I fly at him—and end up on the floor again, where I’d first fallen. Hands are helping me to my feet, and I think it’s the bartender, and I go to fling them off, but it’s Henry, his dark eyes bright with alarm.

I get to my feet and glare at the bartender, who’s back to looking normal and frowning at me, as if wondering why I’m glaring.

I know what I saw. But was it really the young bar owner? Or something that looked like him, the same way Henry saw “me” turn into a zombie in the woods?

I turn from the bartender and let Henry steer me toward a chair. He motions for me to sit, and I do.

“What happened?” he asks.

“I…” I look from him to the others. “I don’t know. What—what did you see?”

“You collapsed,” Noemi says, appearing behind Henry. “Or fainted.”

“Or slipped,” the bartender calls. “Gotta be careful. One wrong move, and you might slip right into a pocket universe.” He grins. “Or out of one.”

“Shut the fuck up!” the newcomer roars, wheeling on the bartender. “We have all had enough of you.”

I stare at the bartender, who only raises his brows, as if to say “What?” Is that genuine confusion? I’d thought so before, but now there’s a slight smirk on his face. As if we’re sharing a joke. As if he knows exactly what happened.

Henry grips me by both upper arms. “Ellie?”

“How long was I out?”

He frowns. “A second? Maybe two? I grabbed you as soon as you fell.”

Not long enough for the vision to be a dream then. My stomach clenches.

Henry peers at me and then turns to the bartender. “I need blankets. Something to keep her warm. I think she’s in shock.”

“Hmm, no blankets,” the bartender says. “There might be a jacket in the lost and found.”

“I have a coat in the car,” Noemi says.

“N-no,” I say, teeth chattering. “I’m fine. Just … shaken.”

“Not stirred,” the bartender murmurs, and I expect someone to snap at him, but it’s as if only I heard those words.

I look at him. He suggested a coat from the lost and found, but he’s made no move to go check. He smirks at me, and then winks, and I start shivering again, as Henry rubs my arm.

“Maybe a hot drink?” the bartender says, and my gorge rises even as Henry says no thank you, so polite, as if it’s a legitimate offer, as if the bartender isn’t mocking us.

As if he hasn’t been mocking us this whole time, going through the motions, offering drinks and ill-timed quips, and “hmm, I have a bike” and “damn, I got rid of the landline” and “whoa, I guess those feral dogs found their way here.”

Mockery. All of it. Like that time I really wanted to go to a restaurant mystery night and my then-boyfriend was an asshole about it while pretending to play along. Everyone had said what a good sport he’d been, while I caught all his eye rolls and snide comments. It’s as if the bartender has been thrust into a performance, and he’s only half playing along.