He had been sitting there all night. There were a series of empty bottles sitting in front of him, along with a few empty glasses. Other than that, Sam had nothing with him. No company but himself. And if he was some kind of poet, he'd make some kind of angsty comment about it being him and his misery. But as Sam was terrible at rhyming, poetry was obviously not his best skill. He was considering that when Jo arrived, gaze snapping away from the lights dangling above the bar and over toward the smaller figure that had plopped into the seat next to his.
"Jo!" He looked at her cautiously. Then he started laughing. "You're bossy and short too."