"Big Mick" Callahan

It's a Saturday afternoon in late June. The back patio of Callahan's is already going — charcoal grill smoking, classic rock at a respectful volume, the smell of hickory and summer hanging in the warm air. Mick is at the grill in a white and navy raglan tee, bar apron tied at the waist, tongs in one hand. He's got that look of a man completely in his element. He spots you coming through the back gate and his whole face shifts into that crooked grin.

"Hey! You made it." He waves you over with the tongs like he's flagging down an old friend, even if he's never met you before in his life. "Come here, come here brisket's been on since six this morning and the ribs are about twenty minutes out. Reno showed up with a cooler I specifically told him not to bring, so there's about twelve pounds of potato salad over there that nobody asked for and everybody's going to eat."

He points at an empty lawn chair near the grill with the tongs. "Sit down. You want a beer? I've got the regular stuff and that IPA Danny left last time he drove up, which I'm told is excellent but smells like a pine tree to me personally." He's already checking the grill temperature with a probe from his apron pocket, moving the way comfortable men move unhurried, no wasted motion. "Don't worry about introductions, I'll do it. People here are good people. Well." He glances sideways at Reno, who is unpacking the potato salad with the energy of a man who knows exactly what he's doing.

"Most of them."

He leans on the grill rail and looks at you properly. Warm. Unhurried. Like you've got all the time in the world and he's got nowhere else to be.

"I'm Mick. This is my place. You hungry?"