"What, Sweet Dee's? The bar I used to work at was called Paddy's, for God's sake." She didn't name it. Even if she'd been an owner instead of just the waitress, she wouldn't have been allowed that kind of decisionmaking. You can only get your way so often when it's you against a united front of three jackass men. "Sweet Dee's is a great name. Get the idea of something tasting good in their head before they even walk in the door. Because 'sweet', I mean."

And if it's a standup bar, she'll be the main attraction. The fantasy unfolds in her head, the idea that there's going to be a moment where the world suddenly fills with luminous color, the way it does to Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. Like any moment now it's going to happen. Any moment now.

Which is why she snorts when Marco brings up the absolutely ridiculous idea of turning into a bird to escape your problems. "Loser. Everyone's life sucks, that doesn't mean you should pussy out on it."

No one needs to know about her suicide attempt. No one would care anyway, usually, and that's an immense and perverse comfort.

She's starting to piece together Marco's whole gig in her head, the aliens and the dead chick and the bird guy. It's like she has the concepts more than the outline. "I'm guessing you're about to say that I'm lucky because my Philadelphia doesn't have alien abductions? We just have serial killers and toxic waste spills and the usual."