Milk on the Floor, Pride in the Dirt
Zane tapped the photo. “She slipped on her own drip, if you can believe it. They didn’t even pause the milking. Carmichael said the floor drains would take care of it.”
Back table at Bootlegger’s Taproom, Cedar Ridge
A cracked vinyl booth, the hum of an ice machine, and the bitter smell of fried meat and sour beer
Zane Puckett slapped down a glossy polymer sheet on the table, its corner still curling from the heat of the instant-printer spool.
“Fresh off the farm this morning,” he said, grinning. “Thought you’d appreciate the composition, Colton.”
