"Perfect." He led her to the little bar, a cozy hole in the wall he'd found after his second group session, and usually retreated to afterwards for a finger or two of something to take the edge off of his frustration with the Bureau's ineffectiveness. The bartender recognized him and gave a tiny wave, and Martin gestured quizzically toward the farthest booth from the back.

"Sponsor?" The bartender asked him with an arch of an eyebrow.

"Just meeting a friend after," Martin said dismissively. As they slipped into the booth, he lowered his voice to Harleen. "He thinks I'm in group for grief counseling for my father. Man doesn't need to know he died twelve years ago."