"You okay?" "You don't have to—" "Just tell me yes or no." Everly kept her knees between Maya and the bar stool until the drunk classmate shoved her shoulder and mumbled nonsense. Glasses clinked. Laughter rose. A beer-scented heat pressed at their shoulders. "You're paying for her when she pukes," the man behind them said, voice sliding over the bar noise. He smelled like cheap cologne and cigarettes. "You're not my father," Everly said. "You're not anyone's hero either." He leaned too close. His hand dipped. "Don't touch me." The man laughed. "Oh, don't be like that. She barely knows how to say 'no' anymore." "Say one more word," Everly said. "Say it then." He reached. His fingers found Maya's coarse sweater, then Everly's wrist. He tried to spread her fingers. "Look, look—" "Stop." She snapped his hand backward. The sound was small and solid. The man jerked like someone had lit him. He clutched his palm, eyes wide. "You'll regret—" he hissed, spitting the last consonant. Everly twisted until the man blinked water from his eyes and let out a sharp cry that drew the room. He bumped the bar, knocked over a coaster, then grabbed his hand as if the pain would make him smaller. "You broke my finger!" he shouted. His voice got thin under the crowd. "So?" Everly said. "Don't touch me again." People turned. Phones came up. Someone laughed. Off to the side