Over at the bar, sucking on long tubes of smoke, two men with navy blue plaid suits over starched shirts stood up and began walking towards Barry.
  "Shit," Barry grumbled. He shook the sphere as though it were a Magic 8-ball. But instead of all signs pointing to yes, he saw a series of seven pictures. Two of him in the a circle of water surrounded by criss-crossed paths, Doug at a council meeting, an abstract image of interlocked spheres, an old man and woman, sitting on a bench, a smug 80s guy.