You pass the bar boy and he gives you a look.
Back at the table, you notice the tall glass next to her head has been drained, dark little grit-dregs at the bottom.
Across from her is a blue-filigreed bowl with a hard-boiled egg the size of your fist. Next to it is a squat pint glass full with pulpy purple-orange. Your stomach flips, nervous but mainly
starving.