“Then what in the stars is even the purpose of this bar being here?” Reyes sighed, running a finger along one of the undershelves, revealing the layer of dust. It was practically a lament, an exaggerated bewailing of his fate — because griping about this inconvenience at least gave him something to focus on, a pebble in his shoe to make a fuss over rather than the massive, overwhelming, frankly-unimaginable problem hovering over all their heads instead. This one by comparison was molehill-sized, which of course meant Reyes mourned it like a mountain.

“You don’t happen to have a stash, do you? Or know anywhere one may find some? I think I’ve discovered a new goal in life.” He was reminded, then, of his stealing a bottle of Mount Milgrom whiskey. One of the last from Earth, transplanted to a new galaxy. That had been priceless too.