The bar had no name anymore. If it ever did, the sign had long since fallen, shattered glass and wood scattered in the alley beside it. The front door hung off one hinge, and the windows were boarded up with whatever survivors could find—scraps of old fence, coffin lids, a road sign that still read STOP in fading red paint.
Hattie kicked it open like it owed her money, and Eric chuckled softly, following behind her closely. "You're a menace," he said without much heat.
"Correction," she said, spinning slowly in the dim interior. "I'm your menace."
The jukebox was still there. Half-melted, half-broken, and yet, the moment Hattie snapped her fingers, it somehow played something distorted and bluesy, like the ghost of jazz after the end of the world. Dust motes danced in the fractured sunlight streaming through the cracks, and the bar smelled like old bourbon and even older regrets.
It was perfect.
