Ten minutes to midnight Sparrow ran out of the party, leaving everyone’s mouth as open as the front door. The revelers looked at each other with eyes half-hidden under paper party hats and heavy with cheap champagne and momentarily forgot the countdown and the coming new year.
One pair at a time, the eyes stopped asking questions and looked to the back of the room. Stork stood there, beer can half-crushed in his hand. Forty eyes blinked and stared from either side of Sparrow’s wake.
He shrugged and pressed skip.
“I guess that used to be our song,” he said.