That's probably pretty unusual for a young thing like you too, isn't it? It's old fogeys like us who are supposed to doze off in the middle of the day, [ Claude says, making a show of stretching out his back and letting out a dramatic groan of pain, though he jumps right back into the bar immediately afterwards. He's fresh into his twenties, though to hear the teens talk about him, he's nearing his death bed.

He's just trying to make her laugh. With others, he'll delve into some of his darker conspiracies. But she's just a kid. Does she really need to hear someone's paranoid spiraling about past lives and hidden memories? It seems cruel that she's afflicted by them as well. He pours a few different elixirs into his shaker with ice, the rattle of the cubes against the metal echoing loudly around the empty bar before he pours it into a long-stemmed glass, tops it with seltzer, and delicately places a twist of lemon on top. He pours one for himself too, though he doesn't bother making it look nearly as nice. ]

Here. It's not often I get to mix up something non-alcoholic. It's a black cherry lavender soda -- they say it helps you sleep, and it tastes as pretty as it looks.

[ He's not sure how he knows that. That's not his usual go-to. ]

But if you don't mind going back a bit... maybe talking about it will help you shake those heebie jeebies of yours. Do you remember what it is you dreamed about? Or was it just the feeling?