The young barback hated closing time. Grime, overturned barstools, mysterious colored liquids, all the responsibility of the cleaning crew in principle, but in practice, he had to do the dirty work. At least, tonight, those spills were alchemical instead of bodily fluids, given the clientele and their ternary computation machines. If he could tell himself that this splotch was a new dye instead of a mix of gin and bile, he could leave without his skin crawling right off his body. The dark of this city quarter, past midnight, made it hard to tell for sure. Black as the sky, black as mors. And the worst of it was the disorder--such a busy night, so many bottles getting mixed up and out of place. It would take all night to put everything back how the bartender liked it.

A man stopped slumping in his booth, drooping eyes waking as best they could. A shaky hand, red from decades of alcohol, danced over the holes of a dented harmonica. He other hand, in his lucky blue glove, adjusted his porkpie hat. The barback-custodian met his eyes.

"Last call was an hour ago, friend," he said. "You can't stay here."

"I was just getting ready," the vagrant answered, in the voice of a man who knew no home, the kind of person who had looked forty since his youth and would look forty until his final days.

"See you tomorrow, Ollie," the barback said.

Red-Hand Ollie blew on his harmonica as the barback picked through misplaced bottles. Top shelf to top shelf, swill to the bottom. The tune started small, but grew, in volume and tempo, filling the empty bar space.

"The anthem of House Van Tessen, huh," the barback said.

"Yep," Ollie told him, without looking up. "It was a nice place before history." He blew the closing etude.

Bottles clinked together as the barback bent over, stood, and bent over again, rearranging. For minutes, Ollie sat. For seconds, Ollie stood.

"...Know any other songs?" the barback asked.

"Just a few."

The barback set down a bottle of something sparkling in amber, set to expire soon. Ollie's eyes lifted.

"It's going to be a long night for the both of us," the barback said. "Can you play the one that goes 'it's a lonely road, Ravari'?"

Red-Hands Ollie sat back down, one bare hand and one lucky blue glove on the instrument. "I think I know the tune," he answered, eyes closing again.

And Ollie played, and Ollie drank, and the long night was not so long after all.