Wherever you are is where you’re supposed to be, Mike said. Prison? You’re supposed to be there. In the arms of a whore? You’re supposed to be there. Walking down the aisle? Yes, that too. Even in death, there are no mistakes.

His friend listened. No reply. He sat on the barstool, moving his drink side to side, hand to hand. Looked up at the television and saw an old movie starring Gregory Peck. Thought to himself. He’s where he’s supposed to be.

Neon signs on the walls. Lights flashing Old Style and Hamm’s beer. A calendar turned to November with a woman wearing a bikini hung behind the bar. The bartender changed the channel.

Hey, Mike said. I was watching that.

Jeopardy is on, the barkeep told him as he poured a draught. You know the rules.

I guess this is where we’re supposed to be, his friend said. In this bar. Watching Jeopardy. Not getting our wishes granted. You know. I’ve never seen the ending. Won’t be now, he told Mike. He sipped his whiskey. Tipped back a small ginger ale. What happens?

Read the book.