he wore around a wrist in the ghostly pale shadow of where a wristwatch had once been.  Presently, a man with jet black pomaded hair appeared with a glass of amber liquid on a tray.  

"Hair of the dog!"  Shannon bellowed, and the man serving him returned a good natured conspiratorial grin.  

They were in on a secret, she thought.  Just like everyone here.  Out of the corner of her eye a man in an Evel Knievel jumpsuit entered the bar, pulling up a stool next to the lonely woman who wore the burka.  

"Who is that?"  Margaret asked, her previous train of thought derailed.  

Shannon's attendant gave her a frown but said nothing before walking away.  Anonymity was one of the founding doctrines of The Preci...

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