Maybe I should leave. But I just stand there, shifting my weight in a futile attempt to stay still, trying to read anything I can make out from the place where I’m stuck at the far end of the bar. I can just about read the place-names on a map of the Shoals on the opposite wall. I read all the labels on the booze bottles, a fake WANTED poster, some of the postcards behind the big brass and green cash register.

My stomach’s churning, all hot with acid, when the door swings open. Rose has her hair teased up high. She’s wearing a floor-length, rust-colored halter dress—the kind of thing where if you found it in someone’s attic you’d be fucking stoked. She’s busy thumbing a text into her phone, but when she looks up she sees me right away and rushes over. She gives me a big look up and down. She’s just being nice, obviously, but it’s sweet of her.

“Is that Violet’s dress?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer before she adds, “Looks like it’s yers now; suits you down to the ground,” and smacks a big mwah kiss on what feels like my entire cheek. Then she bounces her fist on the bar. “Lyall! Stop yer slackin’! We’re gonna give our girl her first champagne.”

Lyall leaves Nick and Jack and saunters up to us real slow, pushing his hips out like a supermodel, making fun of Rose’s impatience. I catch the look that passes between them and realize they’re flirting. Then he shoots a stern face at me. “Identification?”

“What, this one? She’s old as hell! Eighteen today!”

“The authorities inform me that the drinking age is twenty-one in New Hampshire.”

“And the age to live on Swan is sixty-five—in case no one mentioned that to you . . .” That’s Nick, being helpful.

Lyall looks at Nick and then frowns a long frown at Rose. He turns his back to us, and when he turns back I’m too busy examining his sharp, made-up face to notice what he’s doing until I hear the thump thump thump of him setting three shot glasses down on the bar.

“We’ve exhausted our supply of champagne, I’m afraid.” He pours three shots of tequila and pulls out a saltshaker and three fat wedges of lime.

“Guess we’ll have to make do, eh, Small-fry?” Rose licks her hand and shakes on some salt. Lyall goes next, then me.

“Happy Birthday, cutie.”

My chest is warm and I feel myself smiling.

“Beer back?” Lyall asks.

“You know it!”