Sawyer always sat in the same spot, drinking the same thing, watching the same channel with the same people. Back booth, rum and Coke—usually a few—sports on the TV, half an ear tuned to whatever the other regulars were jawing about. It was monotonous. He liked monotonous. Change was trouble, surprises worse. At the Brew Yard, nothing ever changed, and that suited him fine.

His body ached the way it always did after work—hauling concrete, lugging shingles, whatever paid that week. His palms were so calloused it felt like even the callouses had grown callouses. A couple drinks at the end of it all had become ritual, on occasion interrupted only when he stopped by his aunt’s place to make sure the nurses weren’t slacking. He loved ritual, so here he was: second glass in hand, leaned back in the booth, half-watching the game through the haze of cigarette smoke.

He didn’t stir when the bell over the door jingled, or when footsteps started closing in on his corner. Only when they stopped right in front of his table did he finally look up. Sawyer huffed, took another swallow, and sat forward a little, doing his best not to look like he was already annoyed.

“Can I help you?”