“This Muddy Angus is pretty good,” said Dom after taking a swig. The beer came cold straight from Buddy Miller’s cooler; on the label was a sketch of a muddy cow, modeled after the late Buddy Angus. They sat on the trampled grass inside Buddy’s stand, the man watching them as they drank. Eventually Kiko spoke.
“Jeremy Kidwell’s dead.”
“Dead?” asked Buddy, strange expression on his face. Dom took a drink rather than frown, thinking it was too long to still be mourning the death of a cow, even a beloved one. “Wasn’t he young?”
“Mid-twenties,” said Kiko, passing Buddy a fresh one when the man held his hand out. Dom wondered how many the brewmeister had already had. It wasn’t even noon yet. But then, if anyone could hold his drink, it was Buddy. Dom had never seen him drink anything other t
