Wolfgang asks for a beer when what he would really like is a double whiskey. It's late enough that that wouldn't be weird, but. He's not going to get as drunk as he wants around someone who knows him. The other week was embarrassing enough, thanks.

"Mm." It's hard for him right now to remember that, that there is kindness in the world -- little boys who read the same story to you patiently over and over even though you're old enough to read it yourself; the beach at the height of summer and how no one looked twice at those new (to him) displays of easy affection; the feeling of learning something new and doing it right, knowing that it can only be used to help people; the generosity of the human spirit in the face of adversity, and the incredible bravery of average people.

Everything he thinks of is tainted. White men in expensive suits, speaking English over him like he can't hear them. The way certain awful words came curling out of the ugly sneer of children's mouths, homo, they said, mitromem, noshekh kariot. IDF soldiers looking tired and bored at the checkpoints to the West Bank. The police arresting peaceful protestors and ignoring bombs thrown into poor neighbourhoods. The Militia broadcasts.

He closes his eyes. "Tell me something good."