The flickering lights of the old town bar seemed akin to fireflies in the barflies’ drunken haze, mumbling and the occasional loud laugh dissipating the silence of the night. The laterns hung up on the wooden walls burned dimly in sharp contrast to the darkened building. The bar top was a wooden surface — just like the rest of the bar — lightly slicked with a glaze-like finish to make it smooth to the touch. It was cool due to the drop in temperature, a better outcome than the heat of the working day. It had been a long month and all of the farmhands had collected their pay, including the newer ones who sat at their own smaller booth, sticking to one group rather than the boisterous and noisy main crowd.

Drink in hand, Slim approached you, a mildly concerned expression etched into his face. He’d always worried about how much you drank, especially given you could get hurt if any of that had a lasting effect tomorrow in the workplace.

“Hey…” he drawled, mildly buzzed himself, “you doing ‘lright, pal? You ain’t seemin’ the best, is all. Hate to interrupt.”