Elaine scolds Maurice. They must have sensed it, because they immediately produce a beer. Not swill either, but a fine microbrew. The drought, they explain. One beer, as it so often does, leads to another.
Bikes hang from the walls like nervous dungeon inmates.
Nine hours of driving plus three beers plus bike talk equals one decent buzz. My guard lowers a smidgen. The word on the street was wrong. These are not heartless corporate bigwigs - unless all is a masterful charade. The Shark is bidding us farewell.