18
Honi finished the last dregs of his beer. The alcohol was nowhere near as strong or clean-tasting as his favorite Pils in Germany, but the cold liquid reminded him of growing up in Heota; of sneaking beers from his friends’ parents’ fridges. He smacked his lips, savoring the tang of bitterness, before regretfully putting the bottle down.
Nina’s hand was on his forearm, and he stared at it for a moment. His reaction time was shot. Maybe the last two drinks had been too much. Or the tequila shots before that. Everybody had insisted on buying him drinks. He couldn’t have refused, even though he’d tried at the beginning. But these were his people, many of whom he hadn’t seen in years.
He felt a silly grin creep across his face. Damn, he couldn’t hold his liquor. Honi stood up, balancing
