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pump up the alcohol content. The beer was still a pale ale because it was light in color, but it had the extra hops. Soon enough, IPA.”
    “That’s really cool. Do they all have neat stories?”
    “I suppose they do, but that’s the one I know best.”
    “That’s fun. What one are you having again?”
    “The Oatmeal Stout. It’s next to the empty cup on the end.”
    She drank. “The Imperial is still the best one. That is good, though. Just not as good.”
    “Do you want to see if we can get the brewery tour?”
    “Can I finish my beers first?”
    “We’re not moving until you do.”
    She smiled and he smiled back. There was regret in smiling, but she was pretty and this was fun.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Neither of his brewer friends were working, but Mike knew enough of the staff that getting a brewer’s assistant to walk them through the tunnels of tanks and vats was no problem. Deb asked questions as they walked, alternating her never-ending queries with sips from a pint glass of Imperial Stout. It was a short tour, and after seeing the old bourbon barrels that were being used to age beer for the following fall, they returned to the bar. Mike set his mug down and said, “You want to do one more?”
    “I think I’m good. I feel kind of wobbly.”
    “I keep forgetting you’re a rookie.”
    “I’ll get better.”
    “I don’t doubt that in the least.”
    “So what now?”
    “I suppose I ought to walk you home.”
    “That would be wonderful.”
    They strode side by side, and Mike spoke a constant monologue as they crossed through the city. He felt like if he stopped talking she might not speak again, and so he never let the conversation die completely.
    “That used to be a museum.”
    “What happened to it?”
    “Idiots.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “They built a bigger museum and put about half of the stuff from the old one in it, from what I hear. My trip lasted about five minutes. It’s just a big show-off for the city.”
    “Why only five minutes?”
    “I sort of got kicked out for, um, expressing my opinion.”
    “You’re a museum freak! That’s like the weirdest fetish ever.”
    “I used to go in the old one all the time when I was a kid. My dad wasn’t good for a whole lot, but he loved that museum. I don’t think I ever went longer than a couple months when I was younger without popping in there.”
    “Did he ever go to the new one?”
    “No. Heart got him a couple years before it was done. He was out of our lives by then anyways, went west. He probably would have missed it either way.”
    “Is your mom still alive?”
    “Yeah, but we aren’t close. She still lives in North Carolina and—”
    “You lived in North Carolina?”
    “Yeah, but not long enough. No accent.”
    “That’s where I’m from!”
    “Crazy. My mom lives outside of Charlotte, but my last few years there I lived north of Havelock, by the navy base.”
    “No fucking way. I was born in Mount Olive—that’s just a couple of hours away!”
    “Small world. Why’d you leave?”
    “I just needed to escape. My dad was pretty awful, to be honest. I always thought, growing up, that I was a bad kid. When I got older I realized I just got a bad hand. Why’d you leave?”
    “Well, the last straw with my mom didn’t help, but it was mostly just the way my first tattooing job ended. I was apprenticed down there, real old-school. I questioned some things that were happening around the shop and got tossed out on my ass. I deserved it, I knew better than to cop that kind of attitude, but I was young and didn’t care. I moved back here because Michigan had never really done me wrong. Of course, that was before I found out about the museum.”
    She laughed and grabbed his arm. Even in the cold he could feel the warmth of her touch through his jacket.
    “When did you start piercing?”
    “When I was seventeen.”
    “In a store?”
    “Yep.”
    “How?”
    “I left home when I was sixteen and moved to Toronto. I have an