“I’ll tell you what. You hand over your car keys and you can have the whole damned bottle.”

Suddenly I’m irritated. “Just pour the drink, all right? Why do you care?”

She stares me down. “Because someone has to.”

Under her deadpan delivery, I see legitimate concern, but I haven’t asked for it. For a split second, I feel an urge to throw my empty shot glass hard at the mirror behind her, just to do it, to make something break. Instead, I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “How old are you?”

“What?” She snorts. “A hundred-some days. How about you?”

“Thirty-five. Thirty-five and a hundred-some days.”

“Now we’re friends?” Her teeth show when she smiles, but I can sense her trying to figure out what I’m up to and what I want from her. Is it just this next drink or something more? “I’ll be forty in December.”

“You been in this town a long time?”

She nods.

“Were you here when Jenny Ford was murdered?”

“I went to school with her. She was a few years younger. I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately.”

“Because of Cameron Curtis? Me too.”

She still holds the bottle. I can see her mind working out the puzzle of our talking. Of me. “Were you at Mendocino High? You look familiar.”

“You would have graduated before I was a freshman. That was a long time ago.” I draw a twenty out of my pocket and toss it on the bar. “I’m Anna. Sorry I’ve been such an asshole.”

“I’m Wanda, and I guess I’ve seen worse.” She picks up the bill and tucks it neatly into her bra just as Will walks up. “Speak of the devil.”

Wanda and I lock eyes, laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Will wants to know.

“Your face,” Wanda says with a wink, and just like that I love her. The world needs an army of Wandas—strong, sarcastic, unafraid women who say what they think and act straightforwardly, without apology or permission. Women who roar instead of flinch.

“Hilarious,” Will says flatly. “Just bring me a drink, will you?”

I brace myself for another round of Wanda’s responsible-driving lecture, but she’s obviously smarter than that, and wordlessly pours his pint, refreshes my drink, and then moves to the other end of the bar.

Will has clearly had a day. He downs his Guinness in two minutes flat, his shoulders looking sloped and weighted down. I have an urge to hug him but think better of it.

“What was the upshot in Gualala?” I ask.

“Depressing as hell. By all accounts this girl Shannan is trouble with a capital T. A habitual runaway into drugs of every kind, and sex, too. In sixth grade she got suspended for giving a blow job in the school bathroom, apparently for some kid’s lunch money.”