Hanging proudly behind the bar now sat a photo of Benjamin in a WWII Fighter Jet with Sam and Steven. The cups had shifted from chipped glass cups to bronze mugs, and the wood on the walls was stained anew. Another door appeared in the back hall, an old white wooden door covered with pink trim, and the sound of a tinny gramophone playing music drifted into the room.

  Again, Miss T.’s hands moved without thinking, just feeling. Her fingers tightened on a thin-necked bottle, and other ingredients—totes and tankers— revealed themselves as if hidden behind a veil in a dream. Old things, wonderful things, beautiful things. The bar, her bar—oh, the name was on the tip of her tongue—was coming back to life!

  Miss T. set a large metal bowl on the counter, its size taking up the width of her. Hefting a bag of sand, she poured it into the metal bowl, quietly muttering to herself as she did. The sand began to spark and spurt like fireworks popping out into the night sky. Mister D. and the Winter Warden both shot back into their chairs in complete synchronicity. The Night Beetle leaned in, and the fighter pilot put on a pair of aviator sunglasses.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Her focus fully on her task, Miss T. bulldozed through to the next step. Placing tiny bronze cups with long ladles underneath the coffee maker, she cranked it. The brown liquid that emerged was far thicker than before. After each cup was full, Miss T. placed them onto the sand. She waited, holding her breath. She reached deep within herself and caught the feeling she was looking for—a feeling of identity, home, and purpose.

  Placing her hands on the metal bowl and gazing at the sand, she spoke to the metal, reminding it of its past when it was hot and red, when it became purified in the heat, when it was alive and in motion. The bowl began to glow hot, cascading a red glow from where Miss T. touched it.

  Exhaling, Miss T. grabbed the handle of the bronze cup and began to move it around the hot sand. After only a few moments, the bubbling brown liquid had frothed to the top.

  Miss T. assembled a line of shot glasses. She gathered the frothy goodness into a ladle and generously poured it for seven participants.

  “This kind of drink is less commonplace and more like premium jet fuel,” she said, winking on the last word.

  Miss T. raised her mug first that time.

  “To heroes and facing down evils unknown!” Knocking back their drinks, Benjamin scanned the room, eyes wide.