Story Time With Hank | Time Travel

It’s not quite six o’clock in the evening, and I’m sitting in a sports bar that someone’s wedged into the lobby of the hotel in which I’m staying. Or maybe the bar was here first and the hotel grew out of it like a profitable tumor. Either way, it’s an awkward arrangement: certain tables are all but behind the reception desk and every now and then a brass luggage trolley bumps and nudges its way through the maze of tables and chairs laid out by the bar staff, leaving behind it a wake of spilled drinks and muttered curses then disappearing into one of the elevators on the far wall.
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