They sat in the corner of the bar, the noise around them pulsing, loud and then soft, as it did when dying down at the end of the night into early morning. Every twenty minutes another overworked, forty-year-old, blue collar Jack with leathery hands sighed and trudged outside in the ice-cold Minnesota air to head back home to his wife.

"You have to drink a fifth of whiskey and then drive home. That's the bet." Bart folded his hands neatly, Gary and Warren sitting at his elbows and leaning into his shoulders like a drunken reenactment of The Last Supper, but Jesus was down to two disciples.

     John looked at them from across the table without a word. One eyebrow raised. Beard hiding his red face and scowl. His cap was tipped upward and his coat slung over the back of his...

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