The fading summer sun struggled through the murky leaded panes. In its wake, dust-plankton drifted languorously down to the sticky linoleum floor. The only sound was the low tick of the old-school clock that hung above the bar. The doors were unlocked, but no patrons had arrived yet. It had been like this for the last eighteen months. Andy smiled. Since his father died last spring, the young man had run off most of the regulars and encouraged a smaller group made up of the homeless, the unemployed, the divorced, and the divorcing; those who might not wash or change their clothes daily; those who had been forgotten; those who drank to forget. He’d taken care of them one by one.