The diner fell silent.

“We don’t trust any water what doesn’t come through the pipes,” said the waitress. She set a glass of it out, clouded with grit and what might have been flecks of rust.

Everyone had turned to look, from the rough-and-tumble logmen in the far booth to the man in a rumpled business suit at the phone booth. A droplet of sweat wound its way down the side of the glass and pooled on the curling linoleum countertop.

If the water wasn’t sipped, and soon, there would be trouble.

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