Maddy ordered a bloody mary because she liked that it came with a celery stalk. “I’m from Tacoma,” she said, “but I’ve been here eight or nine years. Where are you from? Definitely west coast, right?” She had a decent ear for accents and thought that Echo’s sounded distinctly northwestern. She looked around and spotted a pair of neglected bar stools. It beat standing in her shoes, which were killing her, though she was loathe to admit it. She reached out just as a man began to sit on one. “At-dat-dat! Nooooo. Mine.” She slapped his arm. “Get outta here.”

Maddy flopped on the cushion and sighed with relief.