Adam clutches the rim of his Canadian Club and 7-Up, working the room of fellow farmers while I grip the cap of a Nestle water bottle. At the open bar I catch the crevasse of his back, pluck his third CC and 7, take a sip, and rise to his jaw: “I’m ready to go when you are.” He tips his head back, dumps the lingering gold down his throat. He swishes the cubes with his tongue, crunching them between...
