Jo's not sure she believes that's true. Blame the bartender in her — either type. There's nothing worn in and boring about the girl goes about saying it. No slinging it out like an apologetic (I just work here don't shoot the messenger) hello for the world-weary, probably often irate, kidnapped. The way you would a fifth, tenth, dozenth, hundredth drink you're not getting paid for or tipped on. But, fuck it, if she's offering free alcohol, Jo's not turning her down or saying a single word that might make it not free anymore. While she has no money to speak of.

"Bourbon." Beat. "Thanks."

Instead, she rests her arms on the bar, canting her head slightly. "Do people really call themselves that out here? The Summoned? It sounds so —" stupid, she doesn't say. There's just a wave of her hand and a crinkle of her expression. "Like a movie that's already trying too hard before you even get the intro rolling."