"Are we really talking about a lighthouse?" pipes up one of the two newest newcomers, in German and ostensibly to his brother, except that there are five or six people between Johannes and Horst. So Johannes leans back on the bar by his elbows, squints at the ceiling, and ends up asking the whole room this. The whole German-speaking room, anyway. "Why?"

His shirtcollar is undone and reveals a bright red flush that travels down from the tips of his cheekbones straight down to his collarbone, along with a cotton bandage taped to his neck. If that wasn't bad enough, he frowns and adds, "Leuchttürme. Light-houses. We're talking about a lighthouse. Horst. You dragged me here to listen to some fellow with train tracks stapled into his head talk about lighthouses."

Occam's razor seems to point to the array of empty shot glasses behind him.