WNDR2427

Last Call at Ironwood

The flood hit at noon and by 12:15 the street outside Ironwood Bar was a slow brown river, trapping whoever was already inside. You had been elbow-deep in the project truck's engine when the water crept under the garage door — now the wrench is on the workbench, the bar is locked from the outside world, and three people who each carry a piece of your life are sitting on the other side of that steel door. Someone slid a folded envelope under the cash drawer this morning before you noticed, and the return address is a law firm you have never hired.