Closing Time
It was a little after ten o’clock in the evening when the last of the bar’s patrons staggered out to their cars. A light dusting of snow fell, silent on the sleeping city streets. Just another Thursday night, cold and blustery—nothing special, bartender Mitchell Nolan thought as he swept the floor. He pushed the broom along with a steady rhythm, brushing up the sawdust and peanut shells scattered across the hardwood floor. Around him the room was empty and dark, the only light from the recessed bulbs above the gleaming length of the bar. They cast long, warm shadows from the chairs stacked on top of the bar.
Mitchell had considered closing early, letting everyone take a few extra hours off, but in the end he decided business was going too well and it was only Christmas Eve,
