Dear Wigleaf,

This summer in Nebraska, in a bar called Dinty Moore's, I saw a man (the bartender) pour himself a shot of industrial cleaner from a two-gallon plastic jug. He swallowed without a wince. I'd been warned of a dog named Country, who frequented Dinty's but did not attend that evening. Country had fleas. Across the street on blocks was a camper trailer, branded Big Country. Country and Big Country. Had Country ever entered Big Country?

Later another fellow, older and smaller than the bartender, threw back a shot of the cleaner and stumbled out to retch discreetly behind the bed of his pickup. (Do we value life differently now, after the pandemic? Are we all a touch less precious with ourselves? Regardless, it felt good to be home.) At last call the bartender gave all the women in our party special edition coral-hued Crown Royal bags.

Fond wishes,
Kate