Yes, lower case bs because this place doesn’t actually have anything formal like a name or sign. It’s just literally a barn in the middle of a field where you can get a beer, hence the beer barn. I don’t even know whose land this is, just that the bartender’s name is Bubba.

That’s probably not his real name either, but it’s what we all know him by, so it works. And also, that whole record scratch and eyes on the newbie thing? That’d be me. Except I’m not new, by any stretch.

But I am the local legend. Unfortunately, not in a good way.

“Hey, Zoey. Somebody call you? Might be a wee bit pree-mah-chure.” Bubba’s thick fingers are held a scant inch apart, and the word has three syllables, the way it should, but it’s longer than it should be by at least a solid two seconds. “Silas is still breathing.”

Bubba points to an old guy at the end of the bar who’s eyeballing me through squinted, glassy slits like I’m the Angel of Death come to take him away. “But if you hang out, you might get lucky.”

Beside me, Blake stiffens. Not in his pants, though to be honest, I can’t tell since I’m not looking at his crotch. But he’s not used to this, and it seems like he’s about to come to my defense again, the way he did about Alver. It’s kinda sweet, in a white knight sort of way. But not needed. I’m no damsel, and it takes a lot more than Bubba being a smartass to distress me.

I smile like Bubba’s being funny and his greeting isn’t the exact reason I hate coming in here. Maybe that’s where Jacob gets that particular coping mechanism from?

I point at my eyes with V-ed fingers and then to Silas, communicating that I’m watching him. “Should I save you a drawer?”

Silas jerks, spilling his beer over his hand and on the bar, making everyone bust out in laughter at his expense. “That shit ain’t funny, Zoey Walker.”

I laugh lightly. “It kinda was.” Silas wiggles on his barstool like ants are marching their way up and down his spine and into his pants. “Someone walking over your grave, Silas House?”

I don’t know why people call me by my full name sometimes—distance, I suppose—but I like to do it back. They take it as though I’m double-checking my list like Santa and marking them off. The question is . . . am I marking them off as okay or as soon to appear in my morgue?

Everyone seems to think I know. Like I’m some walking, talking Magic Eight Ball that can do a somersault and tell them signs point to yes or better not tell you now.