He chased the coffee rings on the formica coffee bar with his fingertip, spreading the thin ensō of liquid into ever broader strokes in time with the acid jazz playing softly overhead. It was past midnight on a work night, he should go home. Instead, he lingered at the late-night coffee joint with the drinks looking for sobriety in the dregs of their cup and not finding much there to give them hope. The stared at their empty cups, debating on if they should risk the drive home or the sleeplessness another cup would bring. The Beacon’s barista could not be bothered to help them decide — the tips had been lackluster all night anyway with no promise of more to come for showing a willingness to serve the clientele another cup.

Mark was avoiding home, with good reason. Along with the futon bed that called his name even from here, his studio apartment overlooking the Sound was otherwise occupied by ghosts.

So he put off dealing with the unwanted, uninvited guests at least until the barista made his last call announcement. Mark wished it was not raining, because then he would have been able to roam the streets until daybreak, when the ghosts would finally take their leave. He thought he might call in sick today so he could sleep for the first time in three days.

If he was lucky, perhaps he would sleep right through the return of his ghosts after dusk. It did not seem likely, but he considered himself an optimist.