I walked into a bar I swear I’d never been to before—dim lights, the faint hum of an old jukebox in the corner, and the lingering scent of whiskey and something fried. The place was nearly empty, just a couple of men hunched over their beers and a woman at the far end of the counter stirring a drink like it had personally offended her.
I knew it was too early to drink, but I just needed relief—something to take the edge off, to quiet the noise in my head.
Sliding onto a barstool, I caught the bartender’s eye. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a beard that probably had its own life story. “What’ll it be?” he asked, his voice deep but casual, like nothing in the world could possibly rattle him.
“Whiskey,” I said without hesitation. “Neat.”
He raised an eyebrow—maybe because it was bare
