Ten. Nine. Eight.
John stared into the amber between his hands, listening to Zed and Chas chant behind him. They sounded happy. To be alive. Be together. To be.
Seven. Six. Five.
Why shouldn’t they be? It’d been one helluva year. Most days it seemed they might not live to this night.
Four. Three. Two.
But what was there to look forward to? What made this night different?
The whiskey burned his throat; the blaring of noisemakers rattled the millhouse rafters.
To more of the same, luv, John shrugged as he filled his glass again.
Happy bloody New Year.