the book he’s reading is paint by numbers literature, formulaic to a fault, but holden’s happy to have something to run his mind over as he sits in a corner of the bar that light can reach but not fully saturate. there is a drink in front of him that he didn’t order, and if he weren’t living in this strange half-state he’d think someone had left it there when he wasn’t paying attention, but now he’s wondering if it’s a phantom beverage, if it’s something that was there the night he died and it’s here to remind him. as he’s mulling this over, someone takes a seat beside him, looking very much like they don’t even know he’s there. he makes himself pointedly visible, half hoping that when they glance up they’ll be startled enough to fall out of their chair.