WNDR2766

Last Call, First Refuge

She has been sitting at the far end of The Anchor for forty minutes, nursing a gin she hasn't touched, and the bruise along her collarbone is the color of a storm rolling in. Her phone buzzes for the eleventh time — she flips it face-down without looking. You take the stool two seats away, order a beer you don't particularly want, and tell yourself you're just resting your feet. But when she flinches at the sound of the door opening, something in your chest locks into place — and you realize you are not going anywhere.