Rules for eating oysters

Rule Five: Never get attached to those who are useless. When Racter told Shay he wasn’t interested in the kinds of personal facts most people would find outrageously intimate, he wasn’t entirely honest. For instance, he listens with great interest and observes Shay’s conversations with her adoptive father, Raymond, whose real name is Edward Tsang. It isn’t hard to do, given that the cameras in Shay’s cabin are working just fine. Shay is rummaging through her things. The old Chinese man sits on the bunk across from hers, awkwardly clutching a blanket in his hands. He looks embarrassed, as one does after causing a monumental mess. “Are you sure... I’m not intruding here?” he asks hesitantly. “It’s fine, Raymond. I don’t feel like sleeping in this cabin anyway. Too many nightmares here.” Her laugh rings false, like counterfeit designer clothes in the Mong Kok markets. “I’m thinking of spending the next couple of nights in a bar or a club. Maybe Wan Chai... Strobe lights, loud music, some not-too-ugly strangers, an ocean of soju and cram — and no dreams about teeth falling out.” “‘I will rise now and go about the city, in the streets and in the squares; I will seek him whom my soul loves...’” Raymond suddenly quotes. Shay looks up in surprise. “What?” “It’s from the Song of Songs.” “If you’re trying to call me a coked-up whore, you can skip the euphemisms. And yes, I recognized the quote, thanks,” Shay replies, her voice sharp. “Of course, you would. You’re the educated one...” Raymond mutters. “I could recommend a few places like that. With loud music. And cram.” His tone is bitter, almost sorrowful. “Oh, please. The clubs you used to frequent are probably long gone,” Shay says with a laugh. “They’ve just changed names. The places where the hurt go to forget and others leech their strength like vampires? They’ve never left. They’ll still be around a hundred years from now, two hundred. Even when the Sixth World crumbles, and a new age begins.” Shay stops pacing and stands in front of him. “Your insights are far too inconsistent to be fatherly advice…” Her mocking tone is devoid of anger now, but the look on Raymond Black’s face suggests she might as well have slapped him. “Shay,” he says hoarsely, “we’ve always danced around the sharp edges, like water flowing around rocks. But let’s be honest for once. Why do you keep me around? Edward Tsang is dead. I have no money, no power, no name. I’m just a useless old man.” “Edward Tsang might be dead, but Raymond Black is still alive.” “Even knowing what I’ve done, you saved me from Qian Ya...” “I didn’t save you,” Shay interrupts. “I just… saved everyone.” “Even knowing what drove me to take care of you and your brother,” Raymond presses on stubbornly, “you didn’t spit in my face. You brought me onto this ship — your little… ‘Tub.’ Why?” Shay crosses her arms and wraps her hands around her shoulders, as if she’s cold. “Raymond... I’m not Duncan. He believes love and care just fall from the sky, like a gift. I’ve always known that your care for us was… I’m not even sure if the word ‘not selfless’ applies here.” “I think the best way to put it is this: caring for you was how I tried to silence my own demons,” Raymond says, not breaking eye contact. “Either way, even before I knew about Kowloon, Qian Ya, and the Fortune Engine, I suspected you had your reasons. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. Whatever drove you, you were a good father. Without you, I’d have been dead in a ditch years ago — or drunk, or strung out, or stealing cheap watches and selling my pussy.” “I just taught you that brains sell for more than pussies,” Raymond says bitterly. “Honestly, that depends entirely on the buyer,” Shay replies with a dark smile. Raymond chuckles dryly and nods. “At least you learned not to undersell yourself.” “See? We’ve always spoken the same language. It’s almost strange I’m not your biological daughter,” Shay smirks. Her laughter is once again like fake shoes with a misspelled brand name. “No, Shay, that’s not true… You know,” Raymond says, surprising even himself, “you’re nothing like me, if only because I’d never have had the courage to defy the Queen With a Thousand Teeth. And I’d be proud if you were my daughter.” “Oh, stop it. No need for poetry. If you’re trying to apologize for not loving me, don’t bother. I never asked for your love. But I do owe you a debt, and now I’m repaying it.” Raymond Black sits silent, looking more defeated than ever. “I still… don’t want to be a burden to you,” he says at last, staring off to the side. “I think I’d be better off staying in Duncan’s cabin. Maybe you could talk to him? He doesn’t want to see me. I think he’s very angry.” “No, Raymond,” Shay says with a kind of cheerful desperation. “I’m not going to talk to Duncan for you. If you want to make amends, do it yourself. It won’t be easy. He loved you deeply, and for him to learn your care wasn’t genuine? That was betrayal. But if you try, he’ll forgive you. You know he will.” Raymond smiles, a tender, hidden warmth in his expression. “Yes. Duncan cools as quickly as he flares. He’s kind.” “And you won’t have to apologize to him for fake love,” Shay says distantly, “because with him, it wasn’t fake. Even when you fought, you cared for him. Don’t argue; don’t deny it. You loved Duncan because he’s nothing like us — kind, brave, honest, passionate… someone who doesn’t avoid sharp edges. So make peace with him, please. You both need it. You don’t have to do it right away. As I said, I’m heading to a club tonight, so the cabin is yours…” Shay waves a hand in farewell and leaves, leaving Raymond alone. He sits slumped on the bunk, looking very old.   Shay dressed as if she truly intended to go out — a dress, though not particularly fashionable or fancy, just a simple white satin slip that glimmered faintly in the dim corridors. Yet, after leaving her cabin, she doesn’t head toward the exit of the Leaky Tub. Instead, she makes her way to the computer room — the conference area that doubled as a dining room. She sits down in front of the monitor, tapping at the keys to check her email, then props her head in her hands as if her eyes or head ache. For a while, she just sits there, motionless. I will rise now and go about the city, in the streets and in the squares; I will seek him whom my soul loves... I sought him, but I did not find him… Eventually, she rises, walks to the staircase leading down to Racter’s workshop in the hold, and begins her descent. Midway — on a small metal landing between decks — she stops, hesitating. Racter watches with quiet curiosity, wondering what she would do, but minutes pass, and Shay remains there, unmoving, her bare, dusky back leaning against the cold wall. At last, he opens the bulkhead to his workshop. Looking up at her from below, he asks: "Did you need something, dear friend?" "Oh, I knew it," Shay says with grim satisfaction. "You’re spying on me. You’re like Big Brother." "I thought we’d already clarified that matter," he replies, spreading his hands. "Next time you plan a private conversation, simply ask me in advance to disable the electronics in the hold. They’re synchronized with my neural interface." "I’ll keep that in mind," she says, injecting as much venom into her voice as she could muster. "And I presume you’ve mistaken the door," he continues. "I don’t happen to have a strobe light, colored disco balls, or cram — nor, surprisingly enough, even vodka." "You’re just an awful person," Shay snaps in frustration. "I... um... Actually, at first, I really was going to head out for a drink. But then I changed my mind. Can I just sit in your workshop and watch you work? Sorry, it’s stupid. I promise I won’t bother you." "Have I ever prohibited you from being in my workshop?" Racter extends a hand in his work glove, and she descends into the hold. Settling herself on the floor by the wall, she hugs her knees to her chest. Koschei emerges from the shadows, its metallic limbs clicking softly on the floor, nudging Shay’s elbow like a dog before settling beside her. "If you don’t want to sleep in the same cabin as your foster father," Racter offers, taking pity on her, "I have a futon in the storage room behind that bulkhead. There’s enough space, though the hum of the machines might bother you." Shay shakes her head. As he works with schematics and tools, Racter monitors her pulse — highly elevated when she first came down, but gradually calming. She truly seems content just sitting there, resting one hand tenderly on Koschei’s “head,” silently watching Racter at work. "What are you working on?" she asks. "Enhancing response feedback generators." "For someone who claims to lack emotions, you seem oddly preoccupied with them," she remarks with sharp insight. "It depends on what you call emotions," he replies, pulling a protective mask over his eyes to solder two components together. "Most of them are quite simple. Fear stems from a basic need for safety. Curiosity arises from the desire to improve one’s quality of life. Friendship and other social bonds serve the same purpose. All of this is familiar to me. So, it’s inaccurate to say I lack emotions — I simply analyze them meticulously." "And what about more complex feelings? Grief? Shame?" She hesitates, then cut herself off. "Well, even those can be explained evolutionarily, I suppose. But what about joy? What do you make of joy?" Racter answers honestly: "I wouldn’t know. I spoke with a psychiatrist about this once, as a child. Together, we concluded there’s no objective measure of joy. You can quantify serotonin levels, but you can’t enter another’s mind to compare what they feel to what you experience. So you make do with what you have." "Your psychiatrist was an idiot, honestly," Shay counters. "Joy is unmistakable. You just know it when you feel it." She pauses, her expression softening in a way Racter finds strange — it took him a moment to realize he was seeing the faintest trace of pity on her face for the first time. "So, something’s still missing for you after all…" "You’ve joked about this before," he says. "A soul." "That’s right." Shay smirks. "You know all those stories about people selling their souls? Maybe you could buy one instead." She winks. "It’d make a great story — buying a soul... No, wait. I don’t think a soul can be bought. Only given freely. A gift." "A gift — certainly not in Hong Kong," Racter replied with a wry smile. "Here, souls are cut up on the fly, like cheap soles." They laugh together. "Am I bothering you too much? Maybe I could..." She trails off, realizing how foolish it would be if she said help. "I don’t know... Cheer you up somehow? At least make you some tea? I know how you like it." Unconsciously or not, Shay has come seeking comfort and connection. Yet her pride keeps her from looking vulnerable. She wants to be needed. But she can’t fathom how she might be useful to him. "Is there anything you’d like to take from me? Or do you already have everything you need ?" "...Or maybe I could cook something," she offers helplessly. Racter nearly dismisses her, but at the last moment, changes his mind. "Actually, I am hungry. And I imagine you are too..." "Yes," she admits. "I’m starving." "Tell you what — tea sounds lovely. Make some. And as for food..." He pauses, setting down his tools. "How about dinner in Sham Shui Po a little later? I’ll be done soon." Having finished what needed to be done as quickly as possible, Racter glances at the clock — a habitual human gesture meant to reassure others, though he himself, thanks to his neural interface, knows perfectly well that forty minutes has passed since Shay’s arrival. Setting his tools aside, he turns to her and suggests: "I need to pick up a few parts in Sham Shui Po. There’s a café nearby that serves decent dim sum. I think they even have soju or something similar. Care to join me?" "Apliu Street, right?" Shay’s eyes light up. "The one run by that tiny, hunchbacked Korean lady who’s at least a hundred years old? They only make dim sum there. I’d love to!" The evening goes surprisingly well. Racter manages to find almost all the electronic components he needs at the Sham Shui Po market, except for a few truly rare parts that, as he suspects, are better sought online. Shay wanders around the cyberdeck stalls for a long time before turning to Racter with hesitation. "Which one’s the best? This... Highlander?" "I imagine Is0bel would say yes. But given your decking style, I’d recommend the NovaTech 10." "What’s wrong with my style?" she asks, a little defensive. That eternal fear of being mocked again. "Nothing at all. You’re every bit as good a decker as Is0bel, but your approach is completely different." It isn’t flattery. A lot has changed since the days when Shay first picked up her basic Renraku deck. She nods thoughtfully, perhaps recalling the times she and Is0bel have worked together, slowly realizing she can do everything the dwarf can — and much more — thanks to her boldness, unconventional thinking, and that strange, inexplicable luck she carried like a talisman. "I’m completely ordinary. I’ll never shoot or fight like Duncan, I’m not half the mage Gobbet is, and when it comes to tech, I can’t hold a candle to you or Is0bel. I just got lucky…" Racter remembers her saying once. And another time: "I’d just become this pretty high schooler — no brains, no talent, no courage…" The elderly Chinese vendor packed up the NovaTech, chuckling to himself as he speaks in Mandarin: "Finally found a girlfriend to match you, eh?" "It’s not what it looks like," Racter replies calmly. "Sure, sure. Say what you want, but even someone like you can’t stay alone forever. You make a handsome couple." After that, they go to eat dim sum. Shay, dipping hers into soy sauce, somehow manages to chat animatedly with the old Korean lady who alternates between broken Cantonese and equally halting English. Curiously, Shay drinks nothing but water and soykaf. When the owner hints it is time to close — the hour already far past midnight — Racter takes Shay by the arm. Instead of heading down to the subway station, he turnes off the main avenues and leads her into narrow, dark alleys, heading southeast. Shay, as he suspected, has never been to this part of the city and curiously glances around. "Where are you taking me?" she asks. "Well, maybe I’m planning to find an especially dark, deserted courtyard and kill you," Racter replies in a mock-grave tone. "Then dismember your body, pickle your pretty head, and study your brain to create an AI that could keep me company on lonely evenings." (Not that he hasn’t considered it once or twice.) "Fine by me," Shay says indifferently, following along. It is late, and the drowsy district is surprisingly dark and quiet for a city that almost never sleeps. The silence is broken only by the chirping of cicadas, their footsteps, and the metallic tapping of Koschei’s limbs on the cobblestones. The air carries the usual nighttime scents of Hong Kong: rain — it almost always smells of rain — wet leaves and soil, herbal bitterness wafting from apothecary stalls, faint traces of food — fried fish, spices, and rancid oil. But then another aroma begins to thread through the familiar smells. They are nearing the flower market. During the day, the scent there is so overwhelming it could make your head spin. At night, though, the market is closed, and only remnants remain — the fallen, bruised, or forgotten blooms. The floral aroma is delicate now, its notes distinct and clear. In the dark, the flowers on the ground seem to faintly glow beneath their feet, like scattered stars. They walk across a fragile carpet of camellias and plumerias, spider lilies and carnivorous pitcher plants, noble peonies and opulent orchids, cascades of violet wisteria, and lush rhododendrons. "It’s beautiful!" Shay laughs — a laugh so rare and genuine, without her usual irony or bitterness, that Racter immediately recognizes it. She stops, murmuring something he can’t make out, her free hand tracing shapes in the air. The hand he holds in his own sends a faint electric tingle through him — something that pierces him with an unfamiliar sensation. No, not just a sensation. Joy. For the first time, Racter experiences magic up close, feels how it moves through him — not the hollow, meaningless euphoria of cram, borrowed and fleeting, but a true, piercing joy. It is sharper, purer, like lightning striking directly at his serotonin receptors. For a moment, his body feels weightless, the constant hum of his synthetic enhancements and medical nanobots fading. He doesn’t feel the ceaseless decay of flesh, the churn of dying cells. All that remains is thought. And light. Then, a warm gust of wind stirs his hair and the hem of his black coat. The breeze lifts the flowers from the ground, swirling them around in a vibrant dance — mostly around Shay, of course — and he notices how her white dress seems to glow faintly from within. The flowers, too, shimmer with an otherworldly luminescence. Shay laughs, raising their joined hands, takes a step forward, then to the side — and Racter follows, mirroring her movements. Recognizing the pattern of a waltz, he places his other hand on her back, between her shoulder blades, directly over her heart. One-two-three, one-two-three; they take a few slow turns over the flower-strewn carpet. The hem of her dress floats as if weightless. Fragile petals, as if made of crystal or silver, swirl around their heads and shoulders like oversized snowflakes, tangling in Shay’s dark curls and clinging to her warm, dusky skin. Their eyes meet, and for one long, suspended moment, she looks at him so strangely — what is she seeing, he wonders? He knows, though. She sees a gray-haired man in a black coat, smiling like he knows exactly when the world is going to end. The very kind of figure that haunted her sweetest and darkest molasses-like dreams in childhood — before Raymond Black hammered into her the idea that everything in the world could be bought or sold; back when she still believed love was something radiant and immense, something eternal, rather than the greasy strangers with leering fingers on her child’s chin. "It’s like a blade to the throat. One quick slice, and that’s it. You’re no longer your own master." She shudders, pulling her hand from his and breaking eye contact. The wind subsides, the storm of silvery petals calms, and the flowers settle back onto the ground—still faintly aglow. She takes a few steps back. “Shay! Are you all right?” She turns to him, her face calm and softened by a faint smile, but he remembers the turmoil he just saw in her eyes: fear. An old companion of his. He would recognize it anywhere. “It’s people like you I fear most .” “I’m fine,” she replies at last, her tone dry, almost sheepish. “It was just… beautiful. And you were so… This is all wrong. We agreed — no flirting.” “What? Flirting?” Racter says brightly. “Not at all. Just two friends sharing a bite to eat and a walk through the city at night.” “Y-yeah. That’s all, I guess.” He can hear her heart racing, hot and unsteady — not in step with reason. He raises a hand to his hair, intending to brush off the petals, but changes his mind. “When you use your magic,” he says softly, “it’s such a curious sensation, so… ” “Pleasant?” Shay asks. “It felt… so good. I don’t know… terrifying… unlike anything else.” That words echo in his mind, and he says it aloud: “It’s unlike anything else.” To be honest, no, he wouldn’t call it pleasant. When the magical storm had settled, and its light faded, he had felt… well, probably what people mean when they talk about bitterness. As if something vital had been plucked from the world. As if everything was emptier now. He’s unsettled by the sudden realization that without Shay, without her magic — and no, he wouldn’t be able to preserve or replicate it in some AI — the entire world would seem just as hollow. But that’s not something he’s ready to admit. A sharp jab of fear. Yes, he feels it now, clear as day. (Death in the needle, the needle in the egg, the egg in the duck…) (He’s beginning to understand something about oysters and peril.) Racter leads her forward and says, “But that’s not what I brought you here to see.” They cross the flower carpet and stop before a wall built in traditional Chinese style, its roof tiled and curved, with a circular doorway at its center. The air still carries the faint scent of flowers, but now it’s joined by a soft chorus of chirps and warbles — tentative and subdued, nothing like the cacophony it must be during the day. “Many say Hong Kong is nothing but one giant market,” Racter says, fiddling with the electronic lock on the door, “and for the most part, I think that’s true. It’s not a bad thing in itself… but this market has its secrets and its hidden corners of beauty, for those who care to look.” Finally, the door creaks open, and Shay gasps. Before them are dozens of birdcages of every shape and size. By day, there would be hundreds, thousands more — the bird market, like the flower market, doesn’t operate at night — but some sellers are too careless or lazy to take their stock home. There’s a cage with a flock of budgerigars, another with a handful of canaries, a solemn African grey parrot, and even a slumbering toucan. “Nǐ hǎo,” comes a clear voice from nearby. Shay startles, clutching his arm hard enough to hurt before realizing it’s just a black myna in an old-fashioned semicircular cage. The bird tilts its yellow-beaked head to one side, its sharp black eyes fixed on them, and demands again: “Nǐ hǎo!” “Néi hóu,” Shay responds hesitantly. The myna falls silent, as if perplexed. “Am I really that bad at Cantonese?” Shay turns to him, mock-indignant. “How would you like me to answer — politely or honestly?” Racter teases. “Just kidding. I think the problem is its owner probably speaks Mandarin, not Cantonese. Nǐ hǎo ma?” he asks the bird. The myna clicks its beak happily and responds: “Wǒ hěn hǎo!” Shay giggles softly, clapping her hands. “Maybe it’s worth learning Mandarin after all,” she says. “Although if I cram another Chinese dialect into my brain, I might lose my mind. When I was a teenager, we… Uh, Raymond had one of these. But it didn’t really talk, just mimicked phrases.” Racter notes how she avoids the word we when talking about her family. “…One day, that nasty little monster almost bit my finger off,” she adds. She glances at his coat. “You don’t happen to have any crumbs or snacks in your pockets, do you?” Before he can answer, she impulsively plunges her hands into his coat pockets. She freezes almost immediately. He sees the flush of embarrassment as it dawns on her how close they’ve suddenly become — how her hands are on his hips. Surely this is a completely normal thing for friends to do? “No, I don’t have any crumbs,” Racter says slowly, watching her with mild amusement. Shay blushes slightly and steps away. “Well, never mind. I’m sure it gets plenty of fat crickets to eat.” Racter does his best to make it sound as though nothing unusual had just happened. For a moment, Shay’s embarrassment simmers under the surface, but soon she switches gears, her face brightening with a playful grin. “I’ve got a better idea,” she says. “Are there cameras here?” Racter knows the cameras and scanners of Hong Kong better than anyone — it’s part of his work. “There are cameras, but it’s purely coincidental that I happen to know they don’t record anything. Otherwise, I wouldn’t break in so openly.” “Knew it!” she exclaims. Shay unlatches the door of the cage. "Fly. Go on! You’re free, silly bird. Fly wherever you want!" But the myna just shrinks back into the corner of her perch, looking not only confused now, but frightened. “These are mostly domesticated birds, Shay,” Racter says, watching her. “They don’t dream of flying. Are you willing to kill a bird for the sake of good luck?” “Good luck?” “There’s a belief. Releasing caged birds brings fortune. Some people buy them by the dozen just to open their cages and let them go.” “I didn’t know that. No, I don’t believe in luck. You remember — I gave up fourteen years of it! But I do think everyone should have the choice. To fly away or stay. Some don’t dream of freedom, sure, but some might. I think it’s… fair.” She moves down the rows of cages, systematically snapping open latches. Racter, watching her, reflects that when their paths inevitably diverge — or when she dies — it’s her sheer self-assurance he’ll remember most. Not the crow’s nest of hair, not the gap-toothed smile, not even her considerable intellect or the petals that swirl around her like some enchanted blizzard. Those are secondary to the calm, steady glow of her conviction — soft, unassuming, but unshakable as the moon itself. Shay always knows what’s right (whatever “right” is), and she always believes she can fix this imperfect world. At least, in those moments when she doesn’t look like a rickety fence built by an old farmer. And maybe she really can fix it. After all, she defeated the Queen With a Thousand Teeth… Still, he tries to reason with her. “Shay, Shay… Many of them won’t survive in the wild, and you know that as well as I do.” She frowns but doesn’t stop. Only when every last cage is open does she finally turn to him, her expression dark. “You knew I’d do this, didn’t you? Why did you bring me here? You wanted to talk about Raymond? Or Duncan? Is this supposed to be some lesson about ‘being responsible for what you tame’?” “You think too much about metaphors. I brought you here to distract you, that’s all. To remind you of life’s joys. Who am I to lecture you about family?” Racter truly doesn’t want to talk about Duncan. He’s seen that story play out in countless faces, countless variations, and he knows he’ll see it again: the overly loyal boy, the overly clever girl, and if they’re lucky, no one dies in the end. “To remind me of life’s joys?” she repeats skeptically. “I’m amazed something so romant… uh, so non-utilitarian occurred to you. Flowers and birds. You know, there’s a genre in Chinese painting with that name — ‘flowers and birds.’ I loved my art history electives.” “You’ll tell me about them on the way home?” She laughs, nods — and then, without hesitation, reaches into his coat pocket. She pulls out his cigarettes and awkwardly lights one. They stand together, exhaling smoke into a light, untroubling rain. The floral scent from the neighboring market lingers, mixing with the tobacco, while the chirping and fluttering behind them grows louder and more frantic. Occasionally, a bird dares to leave its cage. After a moment, Shay speaks, her tone sudden, as if out of place: “There’s another rule about oysters. Never get attached to those who are useless. I made that one up ages ago — when I was a kid.” Racter is surprised, even ready to feign offense, until he realizes she’s not talking about him. “I like running in the shadows,” she continues, voice quieter now. “Because here, at least, everything’s honest. Nobody preaches about family values or heroism, or self-sacrifice, or eternal friendship and great love. Like everyone says, Hong Kong’s a giant market. Someone’s selling, someone’s buying…” “Or stealing, or taking, or begging…” “Right,” she agrees, spreading her hands. “But where do you see fair trades at a market? The whole world — it's all barter. That’s just how it is. But when someone can only give you what you already have, they start to weigh you down. Is that bad? Should I feel guilty for that?” “You’re asking me?” Racter says, a faint smile on his lips. “As if you don’t already know what I’d say.” “Yes... I know.” She sighs. “The problem is, I tell myself the same thing. I’d have died without Raymond back then, when I was a kid. Same with Duncan. He was my weapon, and I was his. But then I grew up. I learned to survive on my own. Raymond understands what it means to settle a debt and part ways for good, but Duncan…” She trails off, frowning, pressing her fingers to her temple as though her head aches. Then, almost hesitantly, she asks: “And if I did ask your advice? About my family?” “Emotions aren’t exactly my area of expertise,” Racter replies. “But I’d say, if something causes pain, it’s best to cut it out.” Shay nods slowly but says nothing. Her eyes are in shadow, her expression unreadable. The aura she gives off, though, is metallic-gray — uneasy, melancholic. Later, as they walk, she tells him about Chinese “flowers and birds” paintings — huaniao. In turn, he recounts the tale of Koschei the Deathless. (“Why does Marya Morevna keep Koschei chained in her basement? There’s clearly a missing part of that story. Maybe Ivan should’ve stayed out of it altogether,” Shay giggles.) They don’t mention Duncan even once as they make their way through the bright, noisy streets of Mong Kok, past the bars and the drunken revelers — on their way home.