Thirty days before the Great Scorch

Chapter Eight

Daniel came back inside from his smoke break looking like a man who had just won the lottery and was too polite to brag about it. He dropped into his chair, grabbed the menu, and started flipping through it with the lazy confidence of someone spending somebody else's money.

"Gavin, you know what, I just realized we didn't order enough. This is supposed to be a celebration, right? Me starting a new chapter in my life. We should do it properly."

Gavin's smile was stitched on so tight it looked like it hurt.

"Sure, bro. Whatever you want. Tonight is about you."

"That's what I like to hear." Daniel waved the waiter over and pointed at the drinks section without even looking at the prices. "Three bottles of the Pappy Van Winkle. The twenty year. Pack them to go. I want to take them home for later."

The waiter's eyebrows went up half an inch. She scribbled it down and glanced at Gavin, whose smile had not moved a single millimeter even though his left eye was blinking at twice its normal speed.

"And another round of the premium chicken. The truffle-glazed one. Make it four more pounds."

"Of course, sir. I'll have that right out."

The waiter walked away, and Daniel turned back to Vivian with a relaxed grin.

"You know, I'm really glad we did this tonight. It feels good to be around people who actually care about me."

Vivian reached over and squeezed his arm, her smile radiating enough warmth to melt candle wax at twenty feet.

"We'll always be here for you, Daniel. No matter what."

Under the table, her foot found Gavin's shin and pressed down once. A signal. Stay calm. Let him spend. We'll get it all back and then some.

Gavin understood the signal. He kept his mouth shut and focused on the mental math of how many zeroes were on Daniel's bank balance versus the price of a few bottles of bourbon. The ratio was favorable. Extremely favorable. This was an investment, not an expense.

At least that is what he kept telling himself while his stomach turned inside out.

They ate. They drank. Daniel told stories about his plans to travel, about wanting to see the Grand Canyon and the Pacific coast, about how life was too short to spend it in a cubicle. Vivian laughed at all the right moments and touched his arm at all the right times. Gavin nodded along and agreed with everything, his jaw aching from smiling so hard.

When the last plate was cleared, Daniel stood up and stretched his arms above his head.

"Alright, I'm beat. I'm going to head out. Gavin, thanks for tonight, man. This was exactly what I needed."

He clapped Gavin on the shoulder, gave Vivian a warm look that he knew would keep her confidence sky-high, and walked toward the door.

On the way out, he passed the to-go counter where three bottles of Pappy Van Winkle sat in a brown paper bag. He picked them up, turned the corner where no camera could see him, and with a single thought, the bag vanished into his Storage Space.

Three bottles of top-shelf bourbon. In the apocalypse, one sip of this stuff would be worth more than gold. People would trade their last blanket for a taste of something that reminded them the world used to be civilized.

Daniel walked out into the warm Denver night and did not look back.

Inside the restaurant, Gavin and Vivian gathered their things and strolled to the cashier. Gavin had his card ready, already mentally prepared for a bill somewhere around three or four hundred dollars.

Painful, but manageable. A small price to pay for keeping the golden goose in the pen.

The cashier tapped her screen, printed the receipt, and slid it across the counter with a polite smile.

"Your total tonight comes to eight thousand, five hundred dollars."

Gavin's hand froze halfway to the card reader. His fingers hung in the air like they had forgotten how to work.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?"

"Eight thousand, five hundred dollars, sir." The cashier repeated it with the same cheerful tone, like she was reading off a weather report.

Gavin snatched the receipt off the counter and stared at it. His eyes scanned down the itemized list and every line hit him like a punch to the throat. Twelve pounds of premium truffle-glazed chicken at one hundred and fifty dollars per pound. Three bottles of Pappy Van Winkle twenty-year bourbon at one thousand eight hundred each. Plus the original orders, the beers, the appetizers, and the service charge. The numbers blurred together into a nightmare.

"This is insane. There's no way we ordered all this. Twelve pounds of chicken? Three bottles of bourbon? Who the hell ordered three bottles of bourbon to go?" Gavin's voice cracked at the edges, rising higher with every word.

The cashier tilted her head and checked the order notes on her screen.

"The tall gentleman at your table placed those orders, sir. He specifically said the bill goes to — and I'm quoting here — 'the tall gentleman.' He pointed at you when he said it."

Vivian's eyes went wide. She turned to Gavin, and for the first time all night, her composure cracked. "Gavin, did you hear what she just said? He called you the tall gentleman. He was making fun of you. He knows you're sensitive about your height and he used it against you."