She hurried across the small, empty parking lot, bracing herself against the early December wind, her face needled with angry precipitation hovering somewhere between sleet and snow. She'd never gotten used to the weather here, and doubted she ever would, though she'd lived in Stockton for almost twenty years now.

Why are you still here, Elsie? What's in this place for you, anymore? The voice in her head sounded like Joe. Of course.

She shook her head, as if she could clear her mind that way. She unlocked the front door, letting herself into the bar, and flicked on the long row of light switches, one by one. These questions were pointless; both answerless and obvious: she was here because her life was currently comprised only of known quantities, and obligation. How could she leave the safety, the steadiness of life here? What would become of Becky, otherwise? She shuddered to think of the sort of place Medicaid alone would cover.

No, you're good and stuck. And it's not all bad, is it? She grinned, as she always did, when she flicked the final two light switches upward: suddenly, a crazed, multicolored web of novelty lights, shaped like tiny chili peppers, which had been strung with haphazard joy around the perimeter of the dance floor at least a decade ago, popped to life, as did the sign outside the front door:

DONK'S

The neon in the elaborate letters glowed a garish, but somehow welcoming, hot pink. They were embraced by a cowboy boot and a beer mug on either side. Now that the sign was on, both the boot and the mug appeared to tilt precariously back and forth. The sign was fully committed to itself. She pushed the front door shut and let herself into the small office behind the stage.

Thursdays were delivery days, busy days, and folks would still show up tonight, in spite, or more likely, because of, the nasty weather. People around here didn't let Mother Nature dictate how and when they drank – or danced. She was eying the staff schedule tacked to the corkboard above her desk when her phone buzzed in her jeans' pocket.

"Rob! How's it going? It's great to hear from you," she tried to keep the surprise out of her voice. She sometimes forgot she didn't own Donk's (though her bank balance never did); Robert Crawley did. She'd been running it for him for a over a decade and a half ago, which was when, as best as she could comprehend, he'd purchased it as some combination of anniversary gift and elaborate inside joke for his wife, Cora. For the first decade or so, they'd been frequent guests, and Elsie had done many a shots of fine whiskey with the pair of them over the worn wood of the bar, had shaken her hair and tail out on the dance floor many nights with Cora.

But Rob Crawley was the sort of man who bought his wife a honky-tonk the same way that most people bought their wives a funny card and some flowers: on a whim, without the least bit of thought to expense. For years, he and Cora maintained a gorgeous home in the hills overlooking New Hope on the PA side of the river, but once their youngest, Sybil, had headed to med school at Stanford two years ago, they'd been splitting their time between the East and West Coasts. She was wracking her brain, trying to figure out the last time she'd actually seen her boss.

"Things are great, Elsie, how're they down by you?"

"All good, really – I might have to jump off soon, actually. I've got the distributor coming any minute and Andy and Daisy should be here by four, though the weather's getting iffy. Doesn't ever stop the locals, of course, so we've got all hands on deck through the weekend," she rifled through her desk drawer, hunting for a granola bar she knew was floating around somewhere in its depths.

"Ah, shit, I wasn't thinking, of course you're busy now," Rob replied. He sounded like he was talking to her through his car speakers.

"I told him to call you on Sunday, Elsie!" Cora's voice piped up. "But he simply couldn't wait."

"Cora! How's it going?" Now she was really puzzled. She tried sorting it out. Rob Crawley was no fool, but he was often impetuous. She had a feeling she would be seeing the pair of them soon. Possibly within minutes. She started laughing.

"Are you going to tell me you're winding your way down River Road as we speak, and about to darken Donk's doorstep?"

Their laughter was slightly staticky but genuine.

"You know how he is! If he had his way, we would be," Cora replied. "We're in California at the mo', going to pick up Sybil, then meeting up with Mary in LA. Edith will drive -"

"We're staying in the PA house for the Christmas season, Elsie! We want to throw a big friends and family bash at Donk's the week before Christmas!" Rob interjected, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "And all the locals too. Hey, is Charlie Carson still mayor? I love that Stockton has a mayor, and that it's him, it simply tickles me, it's so old-timey! Anyway, even if they've booted him, tell him to give me a call, so he can rally the troops."

"Oh, he still is, Rob," Elsie's heart jumped and then resettled itself, as it did every time she considered Charles Carson these days. Oh who was she kidding? He'd been making her feel this way for the past decade, at least. It was just that neither of them knew what to do about it. It was…complicated. "He and the regular crew are playing tonight, I'll see what he and I can put together. You know he never does anything by halves."

"And neither do you, Elsie, as we both know. That's why you're the boss lady," Rob replied. "Okay, great. Team Crawley will be in town early next week. How about we stop by next Thursday night? Tell Charlie I wanna hear some Cash, and some Hank. Got it?"

"Will do, Rob. See you guys next week." She shoved her phone back into her pocket. She'd found the granola bar. It was smushed on one side, but still edible. She bit into it as she heard the buzz of the service entrance bell.

"Coming!" She ran across the dance floor. That's be Tom Barrow, with the booze delivery. She hoped Andy didn't get stuck in the snow, and he was giving Daisy a ride. Easier to get stranded on the side of a country road if you had company. More interesting, too.

"Here we go," she muttered to herself, glancing over at the stage. Charlie Carson'd be up there tonight, singing Cash, Hank, Willie, Patsy, and then some. And the crowd would eat it up. Hell, she'd eat it up.

You fool, you're still here, because you want to be here. And now her inner voice sounded like her, not Joe, who was just a ghost, in any case.

Work now, play later, she promised herself, vague as to what that meant, exactly. For now, it was probably best to be vague, when it came to her, Charles Carson, and this perfect dive of a honky tonk.