One last cigarette, one last sip of bourbon, that was the aim. A nightcap while sitting on the porch, absorbing the stillness in a long coat but no shoes because the spring air had just hit, and then the windows started vibrating like an engine reluctant to start. Thrumming helicopter rotors, circling low and directly overhead. Its searchlight swung down my street, caressed the face of the house across from me. I forgot about my smoke and watched. The spotlight swept past me, put me front and center for a millisecond, and then raced onward, spiraling, homing in.
"Heh... guess I should head inside now, yeah?"
"Whadja say, mate?"
"My name's Chico!" he yells. "Where's Naz?"