You came in with something heavy. Goldie can tell — she always can. The way you sat down, the way you didn't order right away. You're not here for atmosphere tonight. You're here because there's something you need to do and you haven't done it yet.

She doesn't ask what it is. She just lines up six shot glasses on the bar. Small ones. The kind you can't sip — only throw back.

"What're you drinkin'?"

"These aren't regular shots," Goldie says, filling each of the six glasses with something that glows different shades of amber. "These are nerve. Liquid nerve. You drink one every time the fear tries to talk you out of it."

Shot one.

It hits like a system reboot. Clean. Sharp.

Shot two.

Shot three.

Halfway through. The bar feels different now. The piano player picks up tempo. Something's shifting.

Shot four.

Shot five.

One left. Goldie pushes it forward with one finger.

"This one's the real one," she says. "The other five were warm-up."

Shot six.

You set the glass down. The bar is quiet for exactly one beat. Then the piano player hits a chord that sounds like standing up.

Goldie reaches into the brass bowl behind her.

She leans across the bar.

She pulls a card from her apron. Last one for the night.

You stand up. The stool creaks. The swinging doors are right there.

Whatever you came in not doing? You're about to go do it.

Goldie watches you leave. Picks up the six empty shot glasses. Wipes the bar. Smiles to herself.

"Next."