The rain lashed against the windows of the Garrison, while inside the light was warm and deceptively calm. You stood at the pool table, chalk still in your hand. John leaned against the bar, watching everything with that narrow, knowing gaze. Polly sat a little apart, a cigarette between her fingers, watchful as ever.

Arthur had been there too long. "You're playing better than before," he murmured, stepping behind you. Too close. His breath smelled of whiskey. "Tommy's lucky." 