Gary approached the bar with the measured confidence of a man whose courage was entirely alcohol-funded and already charging interest.

“Alright,” he said, smiling in what he hoped was a relaxed, charming way, rather than the facial expression of someone actively being betrayed by their own jaw.

She turned to face him.

Up close, she was composed in a way Gary immediately distrusted. Clear eyes. Calm posture. The subtle professional patience of someone who spent her days surrounded by pain and had learned not to panic about it. Or flirt with it.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

Gary opened his mouth to reply.

The tooth pulsed violently, like it had been waiting for this exact moment to make a point. He froze, jaw clamped shut, eyes watering slightly. A full second passed. Possibly two.

“Pint,” he managed eventually, the word emerging crooked and uneven. “Please.”

She studied him now. Not alarmed. Not concerned. Assessing. Like a mechanic listening to an engine noise they already knew was expensive.

As she poured, Gary’s brain went into overdrive. Say something funny. Say something normal. Say anything before silence exposed him as a man with no plan beyond beer first, destiny later.

“Busy night,” he offered, gesturing vaguely at the pub, as if she’d somehow missed it.

“It is,” she said, sliding the glass across. “You alright? You look… uncomfortable.”

Gary laughed too quickly. “Just tired.”

This was a lie. A flimsy one. The tooth throbbed in disagreement.

She raised an eyebrow. Slightly. Professionally.

Gary was now standing at the crossroads between honesty and nonsense, and he’d never had a great sense of direction.

What does Gary do?

Be honest about the tooth → Page 17

Lie and play it cool → Page 24