At the entrance, Nugget holds the door open for Sid, who thanks him. Inside, the lighting is dim. In a far corner, the juke box plays “Swingin’” by John Anderson. Lining the ceiling are the names of veterans, Hunter supposes—men and women who have served in their country’s armed forces. Walking over the scuffed floor of patterned red, white, and blue tiles to the bar. It is of a dark hardwood, chromed metal stools with cracked blue vinyl cushions. At tables with matching blue Formica tops, men and women sit in wooden chairs, shooting the breeze, sipping from sweaty cans of High Life and Miller Lite and glasses of whiskey, flipping ashes from cigarettes, the low hum of exhaust fans sucking up the smoke overhead, eyes piercing the three strangers who walk in with Sid.

“I’ll grab us a table,” Itch says.

“Go ahead,” Hunter tells him. “I’ll get us a round. Maker’s good with you guys?”

“Long as it’s on the rocks,” Nugget says.

The bartender is a youngish gal, hair dark as potting soil but with tips dyed blue, pulled back into a ponytail. Her smoke-colored T-shirt has “UK” in bold white letters across the front. She comes with a sweet-feisty tone, chewing bubble gum.

“How you doing tonight, Sid? Looks like you got company from somewheres else.”

Slapping his hand down on the bar, Sid looks at her and says, “Sure do, Felicia. And I’m doing pretty damn good, thanks for askin’. How about some drinks for my buddy Hunter and his friends, Nugget and Itch? They just rolled in from North Carolina.”

“What’s your poison, Nugget? Cuervo Gold, maybe?” She grins. “And what are you itching for, Itch?”

“How about Maker’s?” Hunter tells her.

“I like your style.” Felicia says. “On the rocks?”

Jokingly Hunter tells her, “Is there any other way?” He lays a twenty on the bar. Says, “Please.”

Sid starts to protest. “I got this, Hunter.”

“Your money’s no good, Sid. I got it.”

The bartender smiles, her pearly-whites glowing beneath the dim fluorescents while her green eyes flash the look at Hunter. She tells him and Sid, “Take a seat. I’ll bring your drinks over.” She winks with the chomp of her gum, then asks Hunter, “You related to Sid?”

“No. Why you ask that?”

“Oh, you just look real familiar.”

Sid butts in. “You’re such a sweetheart, Felicia, thank you.” She starts to turn away, but then he asks, “When’s that fish fry start?”

“Orville should be heating up the fryer in about an hour. Wanna put in an order?”

“Sure do, honey. We got four orders.”

Pulling a pen from behind her ear, hot-pink nail polish glowing as she scribes on a small notepad. “You get three pieces of bluegill or catfish. You want slaw, fries, and hush puppies too?”

Sid asks, “The hush puppies breaded in cornmeal?”

“Yes, they are. Indiana’s finest.”