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As abrupt as I start, I stop. Breathless and panting as I look out at the field of death.

And then it happens.

The murmured chatter.

The soft flutter that turns loud.

The thousands of birds that act as one.

The starlings lift from the branches of the bare trees, raising into the air like a big cloud, stretching apart before snapping back together. I watch them put on a performance more beautiful than I deserve. One bird changing the direction of the seven around it. Just like Ford.

When they stop and the sky goes quiet, I realize I’m crying. Maybe I never stopped.

“Hey,” Ben says, leaning over the bar with a low voice. “You sure you need a drink, Scotty?”

“You turning me down, Ben?” I ask with a too-long wink.

He’s probably not wrong. Between the field of lost dreams and Liberty Tap, I stopped at a liquor store, bought a bottle of whiskey, and slammed half of it in the parking lot before I walked in here.

He hesitates, eyes pinging down the bar. “I’m serious. You okay?”

I wave my hand through the air. “I’m fine. A bad day.” I pause, shake my head and chuckle. “No, that’s not right. A bad life,” I correct. “A bad life. Just one teensy drink and I’ll leave. Cross my heart.” I use my fingers and put an X across my chest to prove my honesty.

He sighs but reluctantly pours me a glass, much less than usual, which makes me snarl. I barely taste the first sip. It barely even burns.

The bar is almost empty. A few people dining at tables. One other couple at the bar. I don’t know what time it is. Maybe everyone’s already home. Maybe it’s breakfast.Maybe I don’t give a flying fuck about time.

Ben cuts lemons behind the bar, and I turn my attention to the couple. The woman’s back is to me, but I can see the man’s face, animated as he speaks to her. He leans in close, probably giving a stupid line. He’s okay-enough looking. Three more whiskeys and he’d look good enough to fuck, I suppose. He laughs a loud abrasive sound, and I wince.

Four more whiskeys.

Ford and I never had a proper date here, and that makes me want to impale myself with the knife Ben is using to cut lemons.

“You’re so nice, Ben. I shouldn’t have slept with you.”

He looks at me, mouth open as he hovers the knife midair.

“Because I’m so mean,” I clarify.

He laughs softly, resuming his work with the lemons. “Maybe don’t tell my new girlfriend.”

“You have a girlfriend,” I echo, dropping my chin to the back of my hand on the bar as I watch him work. “You ever lose someone?” I ask.

He glances at me with a slight smile. “Haven’t we all?”

“Who?”

“My brother a few years back. Motorcycle accident.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice wobbling. “I had no idea.”

He pulls a towel from over his shoulder and wipes his hands, squaring up to where I’m slumped, shrugging slightly. “Name of the game, you know?”

“How so?”

“C’mon, Scotty. You’re around death every day, you know more than anyone the trade-off of living is dying same as loving is losing.”

I sit up with a start, feeling like in fact I didnotknow this.