Jeff stuck it in his hip pocket without looking at it. “Thanks. Coffee?”

“Sure.”

“Plain drip or espresso?”

“Plain drip’s fine.” A steaming mug appeared beneath his nose and Jeff went back to drying and stacking glasses.

The coffee was good, hot and strong and tasting like coffee and only coffee. Nowadays too much of the brew tasted burned or, horrors, was flavored with chocolate raspberry or salted caramel. He shuddered.

Jeff noticed. “What? Do you need me to brew up a fresh pot?”

“No, it’s fine. Perfect.” Liam took another swig. “You don’t flavor your beer, do you?”

Jeff looked appalled. “Christ no.”

“Because I was loading up on supplies at Safeway yesterday and they had a grapefruit-flavored beer on sale.”

“Probably the only way they could get anyone to buy it.”

“I know, right? Lime in a Corona is one thing, but…” Reassured, Liam drank more coffee. “There was a parade as I was coming down Sourdough Street.”

Jeff rolled his eyes. “Yeah, get used to it, you’ll see at least one march every month at this point. And a corresponding parade in opposition.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The left marches with signs. The right parades with flags.”

“What are they demonstrating for?”

“Oh hell, take your pick. Today’s Labor Day, so probably unions. Traditional, okay, but tomorrow it might be the Tea Party, Antifa, Black Lives Matter, hashtag MeToo, save the sea otters or the whales or what the fuck ever. This is the wokest town in the state.” He brightened. “But marching is thirsty work evidently, because most of both sides show up here afterward.”

“Silver lining.”

“Yeah.” Jeff racked a tray of glasses and started on another.

The door opened. “Hey, Jeff.”

“Hey, Erik. We aren’t open yet.”

“I know, but I was hoping you could sell me a growler of Cockloft without sending the ABC board into convulsions.”

“That I can do. Wait one.”

A man about Liam’s age, tall and rangy with thick, wheat-blond hair and sea-blue eyes leaned against the bar. He nodded at Liam. “Hey. Erik Berglund.”

Liam nodded back. “Liam Campbell.”

“Archeologist.” Berglund volunteered the information like he expected a fanfare of trumpets in response.

Liam was interested, though. “Oh yeah? Here on the Bay? What have you found?”

“Save yourself, don’t get him started,” Jeff said, reappearing with a brown ceramic jug that would have been more at home at an Appalachian hootenanny.

Erik grinned, unabashed, and handed over his card. “Harpoon heads, arrowheads, axe heads, fish hooks, a bone drill, frames for dip nets, stone oil lamps, and what I think are the pieces of a snare.”

“A snare for what?”

“Fur-bearing animals, I think.” Erik shrugged. “I’ll know more once I manage to figure out how it goes together.”

“How far back do they date?”

Jeff groaned, handing Erik his card and receipt. “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks to take back that question.”

“I will make you eat those words, Ninkasi.”

“Will you make Domenica Garland eat them, too? Because you’ll have to.”