Johnathan sits in a booth near the back, hat low, coat still wet from the rain. A half-empty glass of bourbon sweats on the table. His revolver rests beside it, mostly hidden under a stained napkin. He stares into the amber like it might tell him something he doesn’t already know.

The bartender eyes him from behind the counter but knows better than to ask questions.

Jack lifts the glass. His hand trembles for a split second before he steadies it. He drinks.

“Three dead in one night. One of ‘em was just a kid. Barely old enough to shave. But she still drained him like a peach in July.” He said mostly to himself his voice like gravel.