"Bar," he says, trying the door again, "has seen fit to swap my world with yours."

When the door swings open, it does not reveal a quiet evening in a northern Virginia suburb, but post-nuclear Philadelphia.

"But hey," he says (voice not at all dripping with sarcasm, how could you think such a thing?) - "nineteenth time's the charm, right?"

(It's not.)

He slams it shut, collapsing into a nearby chair before putting his feet up on the table.

"I'm not drunk enough for this. Hell, I don't think I'm sober enough for this."