My truck is idling in front of the Last Ditch Bar and Grill. The neon illuminating the D barely flickers, so Malcolm and I peer up at the Last Itch Bar and Grill. My hands are on the steering wheel, his on the dash. So far, Finnegan’s Pub, the American Legion, and the bowling alley have yielded zero ghosts but plenty of questioning looks.
I’m stiff from the cold and too little sleep. Malcolm’s head bobs. I suspect the dash appears as tempting as a pillow at this point. But he heaves a sigh and pushes himself upright.
“Maybe I should go in alone,” he says.
“Why?”
“This place looks a little … rough.”
The bar is technically outside of Springside Township, but there’s a Dairy Queen a quarter mile down the road, so I’m fairly certain the clientele can’t be too questionable.
He doesn’t mov
