A day later the sun is shining, the air is dry and still and cool, and the dogs are out sleeping in sunny spots in the yard. There are people huddled in corners and booths in the Tavern and a few more alert souls have trekked from the Tavern around back to the shower by the disused sauna. (Everyone forgot about that simple pleasure when the over-the-top jello pit was installed.) Clean and wrapped in fluffy robes as their clothes run through a quick laundering to wash out the smell of spilled booze, food, and tentacle prints, they sit on a bench on the sunny side of the building, watching the dogs sleep.
It isn't even New Year's Eve yet. Will this hearty crew make it through to the New Year here at the Tavern, or will they drift down that nice sunny Puerto Rican beach or find themselves awash on the banks of the Salmon River in Idaho, stuck with the Legion guys as they pick their fishy crop*.