I wished I had my phone. We could just search “bar” and get directions straight to it. But since that wasn’t an option, we rode on, hot and sweaty and mosquito-bit, looking for anything open we could find. Eventually we crossed outside the town limits, and as far as I could see it was all woods, county road leading to county road. An eighteen-wheeler roared past us, nearly running us over.

“Come on, Murphy,” I said. “Can we please turn back now?”

“Just a little farther,” she said.

We wound through trees and down the blacktop, deer watching us from the roadside, their eyes glowing bright in the moonlight. The road felt haunted and endless, like if we rode for days we wouldn’t get anywhere and the moment we turned around we’d be right back where we started. It was spooky, the quiet night, the high mournful stars, the moon ducking behind a gray shroud of clouds. I felt a tingling in my bones like a vision was near, like something was about to reveal itself to me.

I heard it first, the rumble of AC units and the buzz of music and human voices above the drone of bugs and far-off highway traffic. A high bright-blue neon moon glowed through the trees, and we headed toward it. The building was small, almost like a concrete bunker hidden in the woods, but it was lit up and bright, cars crammed into the parking lot.

We’d found it, the only open bar in town.

“The Clock Without Hands,” I said. “Weird name for a bar.”

We walked up to the front door, a big metal windowless thing. I tried the handle. It was locked.

“Read the sign, moron,” said Murphy. She pointed to a little white placard on the doorframe that said, “AFTER DARK RING BELL.”

I pressed the bell, and the door buzzed. I guessed that meant it was unlocked. I pushed it open, and into the bar we walked.