The "Last Chance Saloon" smelled of stale beer, waxed wood, and cheap desperation. It was the kind of place men went when they didn't want to be found, or when they wanted to get lost. Today, I was both.
João, my foreman and the closest thing I had to a brother, was sitting beside me at the varnished counter, his beer glass half-full, untouched. He hadn't said a word since I'd parked the truck like a madman outside and walked in, my heart pounding like a war drum inside my chest.
"Whisky. Double," I grunted to the bartender, a quiet guy who knew me from other bad nights.
The glass slid in front of me, the amber liquid promising momentary oblivion. I reached out, but a hand larger and rougher than my own landed on my wrist before I could touch the glass.
"No," João's voice was low, but
