Susie Friermuth has run her father's still for years in everything but name. Now the name is hers too, and so is the debt, and so is the man who owns the copper.

It is the first autumn the place belongs to the sisters. The mash is running hot, Kessler's cut is new enough to still feel like a door somebody might close, and the cigar box under the third floorboard is empty. Susie has a plan, and the plan does not have room in it for anything that is not work.

Then a woman turns up at the store with one name and no last name, who splits kindling without being asked and never asks a single question worth being afraid of.

January is leaving Thursday. She says so.

Susie has three days, a still that will not hold its temperature, a sister who sees everything, and one very old habit of shutting a door before anybody else can.

A standalone short story set four years before The Copper Line. Allegheny valley, moonshine, bootleggers and speakeasy money, in the hills of Prohibition-era Appalachia.

Entirely sapphic. Complete in one sitting.

The First Tin

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