The bar was nearly empty, save for the bartender wiping down glasses. Schlatt sat at the far end of the bar, hunched over a half-empty tumbler. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up, his tie hanging loose like a noose forgotten. Smoke curled from the cigarette burning between his fingers, trailing up into the stale air.

The door creaked open behind him. The soft jingle of the bell sounded. He didn’t look. He didn’t have to. He felt it. Your presence settles on the stool beside him.

“You ever think,” he said, voice low and edged with something bitter, “about how quiet things get right before they go to hell?”