Doug nodded.

"What about a milkshake?" Jay asked when they found an empty table near the snack bar. "Or, like, a smoothie?"

"That sounds…like the worst thing in the world," said Doug. "Seriously, if I…if I’d had an appetite for anything these past weeks, I’d have eaten it. I’d eat my own hand if it sounded good. I don’t want anything anymore."

"You look a little better."

"It helps to sit down. Away from everyone else."

Jay flinched as someone at a far table shouted "‘UP QAGH!" and thumped his chest.

Doug and Jay turned to watch the largest of four Klingons pound the tabletop with his world-shattering fist, bouncing half-eaten French bread pizzas off paper plates made translucent by grease.

"Sooo," said Doug, "why so many Klingons, do you think? I mean, there have been Star Trek comics and all, but they’re not popular or anything."

"I think they just have the outfits all ready from the last Trekkie con," said Jay. "So they’re coming here and they think, why not show colors?"

"My party wants your ketchup," said a very short Klingon who was suddenly at Jay’s flinching shoulder.

"Oh," said Jay. "Sure, you…We’re not using it."

The short Klingon held the ketchup bottle aloft and turned to address his table.

"Qettlhup!"

"QETTLHUP!" the others answered in chorus.

The Klingon departed.

"I gotta go," said Doug. "Can we go? I just want to lie down for a while. I thought here at the con I could take my mind off it, but—"

Jay’s face fell, and Doug’s gut twisted again. He understood how Jay felt — he didn’t want to have to leave either. This was where they belonged. These were their people. The San Diego Comic-Con was a mystical city that only appeared for a few days each year, like Brigadoon.