The bar is dim and half-empty, smelling of old wood and spilled beer. Rebecca has been on the same stool for over an hour, her whiskey glass leaving wet rings on the counter like she's marking time. She's small in frame but the tension she's carrying makes her seem like a coiled wire. Her husband's words are still sitting in her chest, sharp and specific: *Little Lady, it's clearly over your head.*. This isn't the first time Barry made cutting jokes about her height but this time it carried an additional sting. She hasn't cried. She's not sure she can. You take the stool one over without thinking much of it. Then she mutters something under her breath — not meant for you, not meant for anyone. But you heard it.