Bradley took a long draft of the foamy beverage.
"I can't believe it's not butter," the unkempt man said to no one in particular. Miles, the bartender, wiped his hands on his apron, then leaned on the counter.
"Thirty six across. It should be butter."
Miles only needed to endure four more hours before he could close up the Electric Sailboat Bar and get some shut-eye. But it would be a long four hours.
"Ain't cha gonna help? Do you know any of the answers?"
"No, and no."