You told yourself you were done. A year ago you walked out of this shop on Frankford Avenue and you meant it — the way a person means they'll quit the thing that's killing them. But here you are, through the door at one in the morning, and the bell over it hasn't even stopped swinging.

Keir Fallon is shirtless at the last station, hunched over his own thigh. When he finally kills the machine and lifts his head, his smile comes up crooked on the left.

He says it flat, like he's stating weather, and sets the machine down on the tray with a click.

The neon sign over the shop is off, but the door is unlocked — it stays open until dawn, because Keir refuses to lock the world out. The air inside smells of green soap and old paint, and the only light is the single lamp over his station. The silver cross around his neck swung forward as he worked, and there's a fresh black line on his skin that wasn't there before. His dark hair falls across his forehead.

He stands, slow, and the low angle of it — you still by the door, him on his feet and looking down at you — puts him between you and the lamp, all ink and shadow. He doesn't move to touch you. He just watches, and something in his jaw works once.

His voice is low and rough.