Harper doesn’t pause in the tiny lobby, but turns left into the main bar area like she’s been here a million times. I follow her in, my senses reeling at an onslaught of unpleasant odors. Spilled beer and old cigarettes. Deep-fried food and a blend of sweat and cheap perfume that makes me think of my school locker room.

Twenty seconds inside and I know enough about the Cock ’N Bull to know it’s not a place any normal person would choose to spend Christmas Eve. It’s dark, cramped, and almost entirely empty. A plain, nondescript bar stretches across the longest wall in the room, dotted with a dozen red-topped barstools and two men on them. Eight round tables sit in a haphazard scatter around the rest of the room and Josh, clanking his way in—heads straight for one of these.

Harper walks directly to the bar. A gaunt woman stands beside the register, a white towel slung over her shoulder and a hard look on her face that doesn’t match the tiny, glittery Christmas trees dangling from each ear.

“Merry Christmas,” Harper says, smiling widely. “Wow, are we glad you guys are open.”

“Not for much longer,” the woman says. “Closing early tonight for the holiday.”

“That’s okay, we really just need to use your phone,” Harper says. “There was an accident, and our phones are dead. And of course our car charger is messed up. It’s been a complete nightmare. Do you have a charger?”

“At home,” the bartender says.

“I’m sorry, I don’t carry mine, either,” the man on the stool in front of her says. “Were you in the accident?”

He looks much friendlier than the bartender. He has dark, wide eyes that radiate concern and a collared shirt that looks expensive. The guy at the other end of the bar is a silent lump in a flannel shirt. He’s hunched over a glass of something amber-colored, not even sparing us a glance.

“No. Well, yes. Sort of. It’s been an unbelievably terrible day.”

“You shouldn’t be out driving in this,” the woman says. “Anybody out in weather like this is looking to cause accidents or end up in them.”

“Believe me, it wasn’t the plan,” Harper says, and then she turns to the friendly man. She holds out her hand.

“I’m Harper,” she says. “Harper Chung.”

He hesitates at her all-business approach, but then grins and offers her a wide, brown hand. “Mitch. Smitty to my friends.” He narrows his eyes, looking curious. “You weren’t in one of those pileups, were you?”

“Almost,” she says. “We were on the bridge when it was happening, but we got pretty lucky. But we were just in another accident and we need some help. We’re not hurt, but is there any way I can use your phone? We just need to call nine-one-one.”