Sammie was the last regular still upright at the sticky mahogany bar when the door opened at 2:17 a.m. and Poly Lama walked in—soft gray wool, black bow tie, silver pendant that simply read “poly.” The bartender set down a bowl of water and a shot of Fernet without comment. Sammie slid a stool over. They sat in the comfortable silence of people (and llamas) who had already survived three previous last-calls together while rain began to fall outside and the neon OPEN sign flickered like it was tired of its own job.

“How many hearts tonight?” Sammie asked. Poly considered, then rested his long neck gently against Sammie’s shoulder. “Four. One of them is sitting right here, pretending the night isn’t almost over.” Sammie laughed, soft and a little broken. They raised glass and bowl, clinked, and stayed exactly there a few minutes past closing—Sammie and the poly llama—holding the dark open just a little longer, knowing tomorrow they would leave with different stories and still find their way back when the hour got this late again.