"Not the same," Julian muttered, pushing open the heavy glass door of the Emporium.
The air inside smelled of dust, cardboard, and aged oak. Behind the counter sat a man who looked like he had been part of the inventory since the 1970s. He had thick glasses and was reading a dog-eared paperback.
"I didn't say I didn't have it," the man interrupted, a slow smile creeping across his face. "I said it was hard to find."
Julian stepped out of his car and pulled his jacket tight against the brisk autumn wind. He had already checked three chain liquor stores. All of them gave him the same pitying look and a recommendation for a generic cherry vodka.
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