Evan grabbed him, dragging him across the bar, and slammed him on the floor.
Her heart thundered.
“I don’t like being lied to,” said Evan. “So, I’ll ask you one more time: What happened?”
“I grabbed her because she wouldn’t give me my hat back.”
Evan put his hand on her belly. “Are you okay?”
“I’ve been working all day, Evan. My feet are aching. They’re so swollen that my shoes are about to pop off. So, no. I’m not okay. I need to get out of here and into a nice hot bath.”
He slid in closer to her, his arm wrapping around her lower back. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?” The words were a gentle whisper, an apologetic breeze to wash over her weary self. Of course, it made her melt.
She glanced away, her heartbeat slowing. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
Evan kissed her. “Bother? I work hard so that you and everyone else can have a better life.”
“I know you do.” She kissed him. “So, let’s get this weary mama home.”
“Of course, babe.” Evan’s hand slid down and clasped hers.
Shannon held back the tears of relief, refusing to look at the bartender for fear of drawing more attention to him. She picked up her purse and walked toward the door. Her arm pulled taut like a forgotten anchor amid a ship’s flight from a sudden storm, yanking her back with surprising ferocity.
“In a few minutes.” Evan glanced down at the bartender, who was still on the floor, and yanked off his hat. “Why would this hat upset you so much?”
“It didn’t. I was acting stupid and didn’t realize how hard I pulled her. It was my mistake, and I’m sorry.”
Shannon pulled harder. “Evan, I’m not feeling well. Please drive me home.”
Turning the bartender’s head with one hand, he saw the scar. “Is this what I think it is?”
“It’s a Cerebral Stitch.”
“Shannon, get me a knife.”
Her stomach convulsed. “What are you going to do?”
“Surgery,” he said, twisting and pinning the squirming bartender with ease. “Now, hurry up.”
Shannon stood still.
“Now, Shannon!”
Tears formed in her eyes. Her hands shook as she opened up a drawer behind the bar. Her mind raced with ways to stop him, but she knew resistance was futile. She was powerless against him — couldn’t even lie, pull him away — she was useless. She grabbed the knife, some part of her screaming to use it. This was completely unacceptable. “Evan—”
“Quiet!” he yelled.
She walked over toward him and raised the knife. His back was turned; his artery was exposed. All it would take was one good slice.
The choice rose inside of her like a fork in the road. All she needed to do was say, “Yes,” to accept the path that the universe was suggesting she take. But all she could do was tighten her fingers around the blade and curse herself for being such a coward.
Evan snatched the knife from her and pressed it against the back of the bartender’s head. Blood trickled onto the floor as he screamed.
“Please, Evan,” yelled the bartender. “I’m sorry.”
Her body felt heavy, and her vision darkened. It was impossible to breathe.
“How long have I let you work here?” he asked.
“Two years.” He had come in looking like a little punk who had skipped school, and yet Evan had given him a chance.
“And in all that time, have I ever treated you unfairly?”
“No. You’ve always been fair.” All the confidence in the bartender’s voice had faded, and what remained was the obedient and worn trill of a scared little boy.
Shannon glanced over at the stupid hat that had caused all this, cursing herself for being so impulsive. She had seen the seriousness on the bartender’s face and yet ignored it. Even took pleasure in it. Was she really fit to be a mother? And Evan — rounds of convulsing gasps shook Shannon’s body as she imagined Evan being this cruel to his own son — he wouldn’t…
“You know how I feel about these sins against God, so why on Earth would you do this to me?” Evan’s voice softened. His tone lowered to the loving father that she always knew he would be.
“I don’t want to be a bartender forever,” he said as he pressed his hand against his face, his fingers half-covering his right eye. His words came out like a desperate plea.
“And what do you want?”
“I don’t know,” said the bartender, his tense eyes scanning the bar as if the answers had been written there, “but there has to be more to life than making drinks.”
Chills pulsated down Shannon’s body. She, too, had once been a dreamer, and even now she wondered if she had become stuck in complacency.
“You think that’s all you’re doing here?”
“I know about the problems with machines. You’ve told me a hundred times that I’m doing my part. But, yeah, sometimes it feels like all I’m doing is making drinks. If I saw the machines attacking us, I’d step in immediately.”
“And why do you think you don’t see them?”
The bartender shrugged.
“Because they know that the minute they appear as a threat, mankind will unite and destroy them. And so they have waged a silent war against us — and they’re fucking winning.”
The bartender jolted from the sudden shout.
“Every day that goes by, we lose another one to suicide or fuse — and this is coming from me.” Evan jabbed his finger into his chest. “I don’t want our men to choose fuse, but if it came down to a choice between that and suicide? You’re damn right I’m going to give them a chance to come back around. We need to survive. You’re a soldier in a war against the machines, in a war for survival. Filling up drinks is just as important as patrolling the streets. Part of that is because you have been given a purpose; you’ve found a reason to stay alive. But if you’re going to flip sides on us…”
“Never. All I wanted was a better me.”
“You think a few wires in your brain is going to do that?”
“It’s made everyone else better.”
“Like who?”
The bartender fired off the names of several people, citing the incredible enhancements the Cerebral Stitch had given them. In another life, Shannon would have gotten Stitched, too.
“And where are they now?” said Evan.
“In Boston.”
“Exactly! The whole thing’s a trick. Sure, you get some enhancements, but, sooner or later, you lose everything. Family and friends become meaningless. You abandon them all and hightail it to Boston — doing God knows what — never to return. And I’d rather kill you with my own hands than see you turn into one of them.”
The bartender gazed off into the distance, his eyes continuing to search for an answer. Shannon could only imagine what he was feeling. There was certainly truth in Evan’s words. Why had all those supposedly greatly enhanced beings never bothered to return back home and help their fellow man out? Evan often talked about the war with the machines — was this really part of their ploy?
“Is that what you want?” Evan’s voice was stern, like a judge asking a defendant to make his plea.
“Of course not.”
Evan poked him in the back of the head. “Then this needs to come out.”
“I never meant to disrespect—” The bartender fidgeted.
“Shut up and stop moving,” said Evan. “If you lie still, there’ll be only a small incision. But if you struggle” — he held the knife to the bartender’s eyes — “there will be unpredictable consequences.”
Shannon’s heart pounded, urging her to stop this madness. She stepped forward, and pain erupted into her stomach as if that knife had sliced into her. She screamed out, doubling over against the bar and sliding down to the floor. She wanted Evan to stop. The bartender had learned his lesson. Paralyzed by her own pain and fear, all she could do was cower in the corner and cry.