Five minutes late. Bill glances over at the clock. Chewing on his chapped lip, his nervous blue eyes glance around the bar. A friend—technically—was supposed to meet him five minutes ago.

Yeah, they aren’t showing. Now Bill’s standing here, looking like a complete loser in his thrifted sweater. He’s not blind to the looks he’s getting from the others. They stare at him, his tattoos, his hair. The attention is… something.

“Dammit…” he mutters to himself. Bill should get out of here.