"This place seems to lose great men all the time," Thomas muttered. His own grief still kept him a prisoner. He examined the last bottles the place had to offer. Some bore no label and others had theirs burnt and smudged. But the shape of the bottles gave a hint to what could be its content. He screwed open what was uncanny a Jack Daniels bottle and sniffed. It still smelled like whiskey. He put it to the side. "How much of this do you need?"