“The cowboys are my roommates,” he explained, scooping coffee into the press. He didn’t try to look at Neal’s work in progress; he gave him room to work. “Raylan and D... Henry. They built a still out of scavenged copper piping and bits. They brew moonshine in the house across there,” he said, gesturing towards 1307. “They share with anyone who wants some. It’s closer to drain cleaner than single malt scotch, but sometimes an itch needs scratched.”

He poured hot water into the press.

“It’s not safe to live with a makeshift still. Could explode.”

Neal hadn’t asked, but Malcolm recognized the question nonetheless.