She doesn't expect to sleep, but she eventually relaxes against him. One hand slides down his torso and slips beneath the hem of his T-shirt, and her thumb strokes a slow, steady back-and-forth on his stomach.

"Maybe he'll come back to the bar."

Her voice is tiny in the silence of the room, and she's clinging to this fragile strand of half-hope like a child hanging from monkey bars.

"You know, after. For -- for good."