"No," I said. "That's alright, I don't mind." Come on, Carol. This isn't court. You can do this. I looked around the room and raised one hand in a pitiful wave. "I'm Carol Dallon. I have two daughters in fourth grade, Amy and Victoria. My husband... he, uh... he died six months ago." The other attendees gave me sympathetic nods, and I turned to Sarah; I didn't want sympathy. I didn't know what I wanted, but sympathy wasn't it. "This is my sister, Sarah. A friend referred me here, but I haven't decided if I'll attend regularly yet." I glanced at Maria. "Is that okay?"

Maria smiled. "That's fine," she said. "Thank you for sharing, Carol." She looked around again. "Now, who'd like to start us off? Introduce yourself for Carol and tell us what's happened since our last meeting?" The woman on her left raised a hand, and the introductions began.

First was Faith, a forty-something African-American woman. Her husband had died of a nicked artery in a construction accident, leaving her with four teenage kids and an unpaid mortgage. She talked about how she'd just gotten a promotion at her work, and how her eldest had picked up a part-time after-school job to help out with his sisters, and everyone thanked her for sharing when she was done.

Next was a slightly overweight man named Charles, whose eyes were sunken and red. His girlfriend of twelve years had left him and their son a couple months ago to be with someone else — a member of some new gang called the Archer's Bridge Merchants, apparently. I'd never heard of them. He talked about her history of drug abuse and how his son was handling the situation, and confessed he'd relapsed on his own drinking problem. Maria and another man gave him some pointers on controlling addiction and referred him to a rehabilitation clinic and a babysitting service, in case he needed them, the others dispensing comforts all throughout.

Kenneth was a forty-something asian man whose husband had disappeared almost three years ago, without a trace. He hadn't been seen since, and it seemed the police had assumed him dead. Kenneth gave an update on his adopted twin sons, preparing for their final exams as high schoolers, and Maria and the others congratulated him on his progress — though I wasn't sure what they meant.

Ashlyn's husband had died protecting her and their four-year-old son from a drunk Empire thug who had been condemning her as a `race traitor.' Her and Charles' stories served as a stark reminder of the criminal infestation in Brockton Bay; the rampant violence and peddling of contraband that hardly seemed to slow no matter how many thugs the Brigade arrested.

And then there was Gracie: a direct counterpoint. A girl in her late teens with a one-year-old son, attending for the second time. She'd gotten knocked up in high school and married her baby daddy, who had then got himself killed robbing a jewellery store with a bunch of Empire goons.

Gracie's story made me uncomfortable. I knew, logically, that gang members and criminals — most of them, at least — were just normal people with families and jobs; hell, I'd taken Marquis away from his daughter and adopted her myself, and I'd seen him at his job while doing reconnaissance. Usually I managed to ignore that aspect of their lives, and usually doing so was easy. They made their own beds, it was only fair that they lie in it.

But listening to Gracie's story; how her husband Don had dropped out of school to support her after she was kicked out of the house by her mother; how he worked two part-time jobs for twelve hours a day earning minimum wage because the good jobs didn't go to high school dropouts; how he got fired from one job for not stopping an armed robber from emptying out the till, then became the armed robber just so he could feed his wife and son. Hearing how she described him as loving and caring and sweet, listing off the things he'd done for her and unable to keep tears from rolling down her cheeks...

Yeah. It made me uncomfortable. I couldn't ignore it like this; the state my city was in, the state of its people. When good people had to turn to crime to make a living... In college, my criminology professor had always said crime was only a symptom of a greater disease. I'd never believed him. But, now? I wasn't so sure.

And it happened again: the appeal of superheroing dwindled ever further.

After she recovered, Gracie talked about how she'd followed the advice people had given to her in her first meeting, and shared the results. Apparently, they'd suggested she arrange a meeting with her mother, using her father as a go-between, to see if they could repair their relationship. I wasn't so sure that was a good idea — her mother sounded like a grade-A bitch — but Gracie said it had gone well, and they'd discussed the possibility of her moving back in so her parents could help with the baby.

Despite my reservations, I found myself feeling glad for her; and missing my own parents. My relationship with my mother had never recovered after my father's death and the... the kidnapping. Sarah and Donny had joined me when we cut ties, and I was glad she no longer a part of my life; I still shuddered to think I might never have found out what she'd done if not for Donny. But I couldn't help but miss that. Having a mother.

I'd expected anger from Ashlyn — Gracie's husband had been a member of the same gang that killed her husband, after all — but I saw only sympathy and compassion. It surprised me, how easily she could look beyond it and understand the pain beneath.

In her position, I wasn't sure I could have done the same.

Maria went last, talking about how she'd recently gotten back into the dating scene since her wife died last year, and how her adoptive son was doing in school, and making jokes about the difficulties of a being a lesbian hispanic in Brockton Bay.

Throughout it all, I found myself empathising with every last one of them. Sympathising. I... wasn't sure how I felt about that. I felt like a hypocrite.

But before Maria, a tall, skinny man with dark hair and spectacles stood from his seat — the man who'd given advice to Charles. Danny Hebert, he introduced himself. His wife was killed by a drunk driver almost nine months ago. No-one had been charged. He talked about his daughter, mostly. How she'd taken up the role his wife had filled around the house, taking extra chores and making breakfast for the both of them, even though she was only eight. How she was coping well with her mother's death; or at least, how she seemed to be — much like my own girls. They'd returned to their bubbly, energetic selves not even two weeks after Mark's funeral, for the most part. But I knew they were still hurting, even if they tried to hide it.

When everyone had said their piece, Maria asked if I wanted to share a little more. With hesitance that surprised me, I said, "No, maybe next time," and the meeting was adjourned. The clock on the wall read quarter-to-seven. A few people grabbed their kids and left, while others stayed to talk with each other. Maria made circles around the room, stopping to chat with everyone before they left.

Sarah bumped me with her elbow, leaning in to my ear. "That's the guy Alan Barnes told you about, right?" she said.

I followed her finger. She was pointing toward Danny Hebert, who was currently talking with Charles. "I think so. Why?"

"Let's go talk to him." She grabbed me by the arm and started toward him.

"What?" I squawked. "Why?"

"You told me Alan thought you'd get along," Sarah said. "And I told you before, you need a friend you can talk about this stuff with. So we're going to make you one."

We arrived beside him just as Charles was leaving. Sarah gave him one of her winning smiles and held out a hand. "Hey," she chirped. "Danny, right?"

Danny blinked at her, then shook her hand. "Yeah," he said. "You're Sarah, and..." He turned to me, holding out his hand. I shook it. "...you're Carol. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," I said.

"Yeah, nice to meet you too," Sarah said. "You know Alan Barnes, right?"

Danny blinked again. "I do. My daughter is at his house right now. How do you know Alan?"

"I work with him," I said, before Sarah could take over the conversation. If I was going to do this, then I was going to do this, not let her do it for me. "He told me about... all of this." I made a vague gesture around the room.

"Oh!" he said, smiling. "Carol Dallon, right, of course. Sorry. Alan did tell me about you, actually; a few days ago."

I raised an eyebrow. "He did? What'd he say?"

Danny shrugged. "Just that you might be coming, and to look out for you." His smile turned sheepish, and he reached up to run a hand through his hair. "I sort of... forgot. Sorry."

Sarah laughed. "You don't use the daycare service?"

"What?" Danny said, turning to her and furrowing his brow.

"Your daughter," Sarah... sort of clarified. "You said she was at Alan Barnes' house."

"Oh!" Danny shook his head. "No, I don't. I usually, uh... I usually go for drinks after these meetings. Taylor spends the night at Alan's house — she's best friends with his youngest. This stuff... brings up memories." He jerked upright, holding his hands up. "Uh, don't misunderstand me. These meetings are helpful — a lot more than I expected. I just need time to... wind down, afterwards."

I nodded. "I can see that."

Sarah glanced between us. "Would you mind some company?"

Danny was visibly taken back. "Company? You mean the two of you?"

"Just Carol," she said. I shot her a look, and she smiled at me. "She tells me Alan thinks you'd get along."

Danny glanced at me. "I... guess I wouldn't mind, no," he said. "But, uh... don't you have two daughters?"

I sighed. "Yes, I do," I said, glaring at Sarah again.

"Oh, they can spend the night with me and Neil," my sister said with a dismissive wave. "Crystal loves having them over — Eric never really lets her play up the `big sister' role quite like Amy does. And besides: you need some downtime, Carol. You spent a month as a full-time parent, and now you've gone straight back to work." She grinned. "Take a night. I got this."

I rubbed the back of my head. I glanced at Danny, then back to Sarah. "Fine," I sighed. "Just... make sure they brush their teeth properly, instead of just faking it. And let the girls sleep together, in case Amy has a nightmare. And don't try to make Victoria eat peas. And — "

Sarah laughed. "I got it, Carol, I got it. They're kids. They're all like that. Crystal decides she doesn't `do' a new vegetable pretty much every week — this week's is broccoli, in case you were wondering."

"I guess..."

"They'll be fine," Sarah said. "I promise." She pushed me forward and picked up her bag, then headed for the door. "Have fun!"

Then she was gone. I glanced at Danny — he was smiling lopsidedly, though it was light upon his lips, barely noticeable.

"Did you bring a car?" he said.

"No. Sarah gave me a lift." I sighed — more than a little ruefully — as I moved to grab my bag. "I should have known she'd do this."

"I didn't bring my car, either," Danny said. "Split a taxi?"

I looked at him; he had one eyebrow raised above the rim of his glasses. Well, if I'm going to do this, I might as well make the most of it. Good impressions, Carol. Good impressions.

I gave him my best smile. "Sure."

* * *

We got off at an old brick-and-mortar establishment, a sign above the door proclaiming it as the `Bayside Bar & Grill' — though it was nowhere near the Bay. The windows were small and inset, and the door was large and made of wood, with long elegant patterns carved into its surface and a black metal grate where there would otherwise have been a miniature window.

We walked down the steps — the bar was built lower into the ground than a regular building — and entered the bar. The first thing I noticed was the motif; the style. It was all rather rustic. Old-fashioned. The tables and chairs were all polished wood with dark leather padding — the floor was polished wood, too, but that was mostly covered by rugs and carpets. There were only about a half-dozen other people present, most eating at their tables, alone or with a partner.

The lights on the walls were antique in design, almost like torch sconces. There was a pool table in the far corner with a jukebox just behind it — both styled in a similar fashion — and a wide-screen television mounted above the bar, playing the news. Danny and I took seats at the bar, and ordered our drinks.

We sat there for a long while — it felt like ten minutes, but it was probably less — without saying a word.

I wasn't sure what to do. And didn't that seem to be happening a lot, lately?

I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone to a bar. Unless Mark's wake counted. No, that was a restaurant; not every place that serves drinks is a bar. Though this place could conceivably be called a restaurant, too. A waitress was walking about with a tray of drinks in hand and a laminated menu under her arm, and the sounds of a kitchen could be heard even with the jukebox playing some classic rock song; quietly, but still. The food looked rather appetising, too. Maybe —

I shook my head to clear it. The point was that I hadn't done this sort of thing for a long time. Years, even. I remembered the firm hosted mixers on special occasions — that is to say: every other month — but I'd stopped attending after the second or third such get-together, not long after the end of my internship. It wasn't really my scene, even then.

So I wasn't entirely sure we were supposed to do here. What Sarah expected us to do. Just drink? No, that'd be stupid. She'd want me to talk to Danny. As would Alan. They wanted me to make friends with him — or at least try to. And I'd said I would.

Problem was, I was probably better at milking cows than I was at making friends, and I've never touched a cow in my life — at least, not a whole one.

I glanced at Danny; he held a half-empty glass in his hand — bourbon or whiskey or something, on the rocks — and twisted it in his fingers absently, looking down at it but not really focusing. Now that I was closer to him and not the focus of everyone's attention, I could actually take note of his appearance.

Tall, skinny and bespectacled, I'd gotten already. Those were pretty obvious. Less obvious were the callouses on his hands that spoke of manual labour or fist fights. The pale, hairless scars on his arms, visible now that his sleeves were rolled up. There was muscle there, too, though it wasn't developed enough to really stand out.