The dusty shelves of Miller’s Liquor Emporium were a graveyard of forgotten spirits, but Elias wasn’t looking for ghosts. He was looking for a blue-and-white label with a rhinoceros on it.
"Hornsby’s," Elias said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Crisp Apple. Hard to find these days."
He drove three towns over to a shop called The Rusty Cork . In the very back, behind a tower of dusty root beer, sat a lone, sticky six-pack. The cardboard was damp, and the labels were peeling at the corners, but the rhino was there, defiant.
He bought it without checking the price. Back home, he let the bottles chill until they frosted. When he finally popped the top, the carbonation hissed like an old secret.