Outside the Heart of the North, it’s  2061. Inside, it’s 1957, and the veterans prefer it this way. At the Heart, we keep the technology simple, hell, nostalgic: black and white televisions, a 1955 Frigidaire for the beer. A jukebox by the door. No computers. No phones. A cash register straight out of the Smithsonian, and definitely, no weapons.

My wife, Latisha, suggested that the bar’s moniker should be, “Leave your war behind.” But that’s impossible. Even the best drugs can’t make you forget the killing. The terror. The guilt. They lie too deep within internal spaces to be eradicated.

Despite the latest storm, almost a blizzard, many of the regulars have shown: Menawa, Aydan, and two others sit in the corner hunched over chessboards sharing good-natured insults, and, on occasion, stories of their tours in Mongolia, Vietnam, and other mineral-rich countries.

To my left, next to the pinball machine, Cassie and Ellie share the latest pictures of their grandchildren—color prints. Each served in the Russian Civil War of 2033-49 — another war I believe we should never have entered, another thought I keep to myself. I run a bar, not a debate club. Even without weapons, a spirited ‘discussion’ could end in death, and that’s not good for business. Ellie appears more agitated than usual. She rocks back and forth. Even in the dim light, her eyes appear flushed. I’m not worried. Cassie was a medic.

Xin Li stands in the corner, a medical wonder: three AI-assisted bionic limbs. Multiple bioengineered replacement organs, including his heart and liver. He will stand there until close, just watching, a content smile on his face, averaging a beer and a brat an hour, swaying to the music. Tonight, it’s ‘70s rock. Li’s been coming here since I bought the place in ‘52. He fought for China in the Third India-Sino Exchange. Writes heartfelt, well-metered poetry of unrequited love. Reads a poem every Tuesday.

It’s near midnight. The crowd quiets. Latisha silences the music. Eyes turn toward the clock above the bar. We watch the minutes. We count the seconds. Every evening, we ring in the new day like it’s New Year’s Eve, a tradition Latisha started six years ago. We hug. Some kiss. Just touching, even briefly, brings comfort.

Latisha joins me.  She fought in the Climate Collapse of ’47, where half the nations tossed atmospheric and bio-weapons at each other. Since then, winter reigns in the North, ten months a year: the rich agricultural Prairie Provinces and the Great Clay Belt no longer exist.

As I lean forward, Latisha lays her hands across my back, gently moving up to my shoulders, and finally running her hands through my hair, which still hangs to my shoulders. “You belong back in the 1960s,” she told me on our first date, “marching and carrying signs, throwing flowers at the police. Making love with strangers.”

“I really don’t know war,” I admitted on our second date. “I served my tour in the peaceful British Isles. Monitoring surveillance satellites. Shuffling code. Serving drinks at the officer’s lounge.”

“I know enough for both of us,” she replied, and kissed me for the first time.

I pour more drinks. Xin Li steps forward and leads us in a song written in the ‘80s. Its summative line binds us: “There’s a war outside still raging, they say ain’t ours anymore to win.”

At the Heart of the North, we may be haunted by defeat, but every night we share a toast for peace and dream of clear, calm, sun-drenched skies.