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“talents” were convenient.
    Jim’s Bar just off the exit had some of the best wings around. I had randomly stopped in a few years ago, and I’d been coming back ever since. It had a low-key atmosphere, with a good stock of beers and scotch and an even better menu of bar food. I hadn’t been in since my near death and was looking forward to a change of pace—and the wings.
    An unusual amount of noise emanated from the bar into the parking lot, and I pushed the door open cautiously. The place was packed with people and music pulsed from every speaker. I navigated my way past a group of them, ignoring the urge to make most of them fly through the air, and made for an empty stool at the far end of the bar.
    I slid into the seat and inspected the crowd. They looked fairly young, moving from the bar to the pool table, jukebox and back with exuberance in their actions. Quinn would love this. I, on the other hand, avoided people like the plague. I hoped I wouldn’t have to find a new place. I would miss the wings.
    Turning my attention toward the hockey game on the television, I waited for either Jim or Quinn to arrive. Jim came first. “How are you doing? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
    I grabbed his outstretched hand in my own, giving it a good shake. “I’ve been out of town, but I was heading back from NY and thought I’d stop in for your wings.”
    He nodded. “Beer?”
    “Guinness.”
    “Hot and spicy?”
    “As hot as you can get it. What’s going on here?” I felt like I was yelling. I heard Jim just fine through the din, but I didn’t know how his hearing was. I was fairly certain mine was better.
    “College kids. This is their new hot spot . You should stick around. It only gets better.” He handed me a nicely poured beer, dark and rich looking with little foam. Someone bumped my elbow and my beer sloshed over the rim. Damn. I turned quickly. A short, red-haired guy leaned over the bar, empty glass in his hand motioning to Jim. Not a college kid, judging from the lines on his face.
    “Jimbo, Jimbo. Fill her up.”
    Jim smiled apologetically in my direction. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough, Mike?” He pried the glass out of the drunk’s hand.
    “No way. Give me another shot of Jamison’s and a draft.” The drunk plunked some money on the bar. Jim hesitated for a moment and then placed a shot glass out and filled it. The drunk threw it back and stumbled away, apparently forgetting his beer.
    “I feel bad. Brother’s friend. Wife just ran off with another guy,” Jim explained, a wry grin on his face. “Anyway, just wait. The girls haven’t shown up yet.” I nodded as if interested and took a long draw on my beer, watching his progression toward the other end of the bar. Women, whether old or young, were a complication I didn’t need right now. It might be boring, but it was safer. Nobody died from boredom.

Chapter Six

    Wynter—Possibilities

    As I waited for the ATM to dispense money, I stared at my image reflected in the metal. The scar on my head was faint now, thanks to months of some kind of special cream my mother gave me. I leaned closer to get a better look, tracing it with my finger. I could still hear the crunch of the metal and the screams. For five days, I had been unconscious. When I woke up, everyone told me. “Well, just thank God you’re all right.”
    All right. I wondered what exactly the definition of that was. I turned my head, staring at the way the pale line traveled across my forehead before disappearing into my scalp. The machine slot opened, breaking my reverie as the money shuffled out. I grabbed it and hurriedly pushed open the student center door.
    A s I scooted across the street, someone called my name.. Jason. Coming from dinner, he wore jeans and a dark green golf shirt, his hair still wet from the shower. My stomach clenched.
    “You cut class today,” he accused me. I licked my lips, hoping my hair looked okay, and gave a quick tug to my black