One: Wren

The trick to closing up is pretending you have nothing left to lose.

I drag the mop in slow figure eights, letting the battered wooden boards drink in the bleach and whatever spilled beer made it past the towel brigade. The air’s a soup of pine-scented cleaner, spent yeast, and the faint ozone bite of old neon. Even after hours, the sign above the door buzzes like a gnat in my right ear, blue light pooling in a sickle on the scarred bar top. I work by memory and muscle, eyes half-closed, my left hand guiding the mop head like I’m tracing a ritual.

The only witnesses are the regulars: Old Man Hendrickson, parked at his usual end seat with the same triple whiskey he’s been sipping for the last two years, and Dana, who works the morning shift at Della’s and claims she can outdrink any man in Pinecrest but only proves it once a month. She’s got the dimpled smile of a retired beauty queen and a voice that could shave paint off the walls, but she’s soft on me—calls me “kid,” though she’s maybe fifteen years older and looks it, her face a topography of laughter and bar smoke.

“Wren, you missed a spot,” Dana sing-songs, tapping the sticky ring her glass left on the countertop.

“You keep making the spots,” I counter, reaching for the rag and folding it over my palm. I scrub until the wood stings my knuckles, then flick the rag at her in a lazy arc. She dodges, or pretends to, letting the damp corner graze her arm before she laughs again—full-bodied, no filter. The sound bounces off the empty booths and hangs in the stale air.

Hendrickson doesn’t bother looking up from his drink. He’s locked in a staring contest with the TV, where some infomercial shouts about knives that can cut through steel. He keeps his own knife folded in his shirt pocket, a habit he says he picked up in ’Nam, though every time I press for stories the war moves closer to the Canadian border.

I finish my circuit, prop the mop in the bucket, and start flipping chairs onto the tables with a little more force than necessary. Each one lands with a thump and a creak. I like the way the noise fills the place, even for just a second, before the silence oozes back in.

The bar’s been mine since I was twenty-three and dumb enough to think inheriting a failing business meant people would finally stop asking about my dead parents. The Wayward Pine: home of the “best wings north of the Silverflow” and more ghosts than paying customers. Some nights, I think the ghosts are the better company.

Dana leans across the bar, elbows sinking into a scatter of old coasters and peanut shells. “You heading straight home, or you gonna swing by the lake again?” She asks it like she knows the answer, because she does. My schedule is more reliable than the town’s only stoplight.

“Depends how much fun you’re planning to be,” I say. “Last time you ‘drove me home’ I ended up rolling out of your truck and getting a face full of gravel.”

She grins, teeth bright against her lipstick, and gestures for another round. I pour out her usual, careful not to let the glass touch the bottle. I never pour for myself.

“You ever smile, Wren?” Dana asks, eyebrows up, voice gone quiet in the way people get when they think they’re being gentle. “Not, like, customer service smile. Real smile.”

I look past her, out the frost-laced window to where the parking lot is an ink smear, the only light coming from the backlit cigarette vending machine I keep for the nostalgia freaks.

“Smiled once,” I say, “but I heard it was a health risk.”

Dana cackles, her laugh edged with something sharp this time. “Don’t let the frown lines get too deep, kid. You’re gonna turn into Hendrickson if you’re not careful.”

“Then at least I’ll get to ignore you,” I shoot back, but it’s more reflex than insult.

Hendrickson finally lifts his gaze, eyes rheumy and almost colorless in the bar light. “You both talk too damn much,” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. Just habit, like the way he rolls his glass between his hands and wipes the rim with his thumb after every sip.

I leave the register for last, counting out the till with a precision bordering on pathological. The numbers are always disappointing, but I like the ritual—coin stacks, the tick of the bill counter, the final moment where I write the total on the sticky note and slap it on the cash drawer. Dana watches, humming under her breath, the tune unrecognizable and a little off-key.

“You good?” she asks, softer now. “It’s cold as hell out tonight. I can take you. I’m heading that way.”

I shake my head, already tucking the money into the safe and slamming it shut. “I’ve walked home alone since I was sixteen.” It comes out flat, the echo of a hundred other times I’ve said it. “The cold doesn’t bother me.” The half-smile I offer is muscle memory, nothing more.

Dana stands, shoulders her bag, and tosses me a look that’s equal parts exasperation and affection. “You’re a stubborn ass, Cade. Call me if you change your mind.”

“I’d have to buy a phone first.”

She snorts, and the sound almost makes me smile again. Almost.

Hendrickson drains his glass, leaves two bills on the bar, and lumbers to his feet. He gives me a nod that could mean thanks, or goodnight, or just I’m still here, then slips out the door without another word. I watch him shuffle across the lot, his breath steaming out in ragged clouds before he disappears into the dark. For a second, the wind whines through the gap in the door, cold and sharp enough to raise goosebumps along my forearms.

I close the blinds, kill the neon, and slide the deadbolt home. The thunk echoes, final and solid, through the empty bar. I linger behind the counter, letting my hands rest against the scarred wood, watching the dust settle in the sudden absence of motion. The town outside is already asleep, windows dark, streetlights bleeding yellow into the snow.

Somewhere, a wolf howls—close enough that the sound vibrates the glass in its frame. I wait for it to end before I step out into the night, keys clenched in my fist like a weapon or a promise.