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Whatever. He’s the least of my concerns.

Henry and I get the window barricaded, using whatever we can find, which is not a lot. We wedge a stool into the frame, and that isn’t going to stop those creatures, but it’ll give us a few seconds to realize they’re trying to get in.

For now, beyond that window it’s clear and quiet. I peer into the forest and try not to think about Caleb, about what he’s become, about whether he’s still conscious—

“We should stockpile weapons,” Henry murmurs at my ear, and his voice is low and soothing, as if he knows what I’m thinking and is trying to tug my thoughts away.

“Weapons?” the bartender laughs, but at a glare from me, he pantomimes zipping his lips.

We make a small pile. The metal rod. Shards of glass from the window. When I stride to the bar, the bartender bows and backs up. I ignore him and take down two nearly empty bottles. I smash off the tops over the sink and put them with the other weapons.

“Do we have matches?” I ask. “Cloth?”

“Oh, please tell me you’re making Molotov cocktails,” the bartender says. “Please.”

I pivot, and he lifts his hands. Then he reaches down and produces a matchbox, which he tosses on a bar rag.

“My contribution to the efforts,” he says. “Mostly because I just really want to see Ellie throw Molotovs.”

I ignore him, take the matches and rags, and grab a couple more bottles.

“You said I was supposed to die,” Henry says to the bartender. “Falling at a construction site.”

“I did say that.”

“Is that what this is then? We were all supposed to die and didn’t?”

The bartender laughs. “I do believe I’ve seen that movie. Yes, you were all supposed to die years ago, and now we’re just getting around to finishing the job. Bureaucracy, you know. These things take years.” He leans over the bar and hiss-whispers, “Nice guess, but no. Although, yes, you were all supposed to die and didn’t. So I’ll give you that much.”

“Then what—”

I tug Henry’s sleeve. “Don’t bother. He won’t tell us, and the more questions we ask, the more he gets off on it.”

The bartender’s brows shoot up. “Gets off on it? That’s a little vulgar, don’t you think?”

Henry turns, putting his back squarely to the bartender. “You’re right. Okay. So, if anything comes through that window, everyone can grab a weapon…”

He looks from Noemi to Raymond, and his shoulders slump. I tentatively take his hand, my fingers running over the back of it.

“We can’t worry about them right now,” I murmur.

“I know.” He looks at me and then squeezes my hand. “I won’t ask how you’re doing. That really is a stupid question.”

“Do you need a hug, Ellie?” the bartender says. “I bet Henry would give you a hug if you’d let him.”

I step from behind the wall of Henry’s form, but he sidesteps to block.

“Ignore him,” Henry says. “Just like you told me.”

“Hey,” the bartender calls. “I know you two are experiencing this whole bonding-through-trauma thing, but you might want to reconsider where you’re looking for comfort, Ellie.”

“Ignore him,” Henry murmurs under his breath.

“Do you want to tell her?” the bartender says. “Or should I?”

Henry’s shoulders tense, and I swear I see the words “Tell her what?” burbling up, but he presses his lips together and keeps his attention on me. “Let’s sit down and—”

“You should probably tell her,” the bartender says. “Women don’t like to be surprised by domestic-violence charges in a guy’s past. It really spoils that romantic glow.”