Sparrow moved closer. He clipped his bow to his quiver as he went, but even with the bow collapsed and put away, it was within easy reach. He went straight to the bar, set his hands flat on its surface, and hauled himself up onto it in a crouch, before turning and dropping to his feet on the other side.
He hunkered down to look, brown eyes narrowing as he examined labels. Most of it was alcohol he didn’t care for. He took a bottle of whiskey. High alcohol content made it medicinal in a pinch, although it wasn’t recommended if literally any other option was available. But what the hell—it was the end of the world. Options were in short supply.
He plucked out another bottle of tequila, checking the lid to be sure it was unopened. He’d hear no end of bitching if the bottle had gone bad a year ago. Unopened tequila kept. Opened didn’t, not longer than a few months. Then he located the vodkas and pulled out the ones that were likely to be flavoured orange or other types of citrus.
While he made his choices about the alcohol, Sparrow began to talk. “I was in Oaxaca when it hit.” He frowned, examining a particularly dusty bottle before putting it back. Not his poison. “On business. Didn’t want to stick around after that, so my associates and I left.”
No use making her nervous with words like cartel and men--business and associate could cover for the sketchier of Sparrow Peterson’s exploits. “Mexico’s not great for surviving when the world isn’t ending,” he said, pulling out a bottle with the words Mandarine Napoleon on it. Huh. “So when it is, it’s up there with Africa for places you just don’t want to be. We headed north. Got bit north of the border, waited it out, and now I’m here.”
He stood, placing the five bottles he’d chosen on the counter. She was right, there hadn’t been any oranges under the counter. He wasn’t keen to go poking through the rubble, but it wasn’t like he had anything better to be doing right then.