Kel and I step in front of the massive hearth and start to warm up. With our backs and bottoms facing the crackling flames of what smells like cherry and hickory burning, Bar processes a short and specific pony show regarding the other evening survivors of the wicked snowstorm—which is probably more of a blizzard, but I’m not a weatherperson to determine such a facet—a very strange lot of guests for the night.
Five persons of various shapes, sizes, and genders sit in reading chairs, gawking at Kel and I, scrutinizing us as we in turn scrutinize them.
Positioned on our left, obviously proud to speak of his guests as if they are rare commodities in an antique shop, expensive and sparkling gems collected from around the world, or tasty baked goods under glass to be sold, Bar begins, “To our
