Clay is on the floor. The bar Forghetty's is almost empty. A jukebox plays something slow and sad in the corner. He’s lying still, head resting in someone’s hands. He blinks, dazed. Someone is holding him—but who? The face is blurry.

Then he sees her.

Bloberta. Just like the first time they met. Only colder now. Older. Everything in her face says this isn’t about love anymore—it’s about obligation, and something she’s not even sure she can name anymore.

Clay: "Am… I dead? Did I… die?"

He stares, hollow and confused. She doesn’t soften. Not even a little.

Bloberta: "I don’t know how long you were out like that for, Clay. Do you know what time it is? You…"

Clay looks at her, defeated. He says nothing.

She looks back, anger burning just beneath the surface. Not the kind that explodes. The kind that simmers. The kind that’s been there for years.

Bloberta: "You need to change"

Clay: "And since when do you care? You were the one that introduced me into alcohol, you were the one that convinced me to marry you!"