Big Rosie:

Picture it: Dyton. Not so long ago. A tavern. Good food. Clean rooms. Reasonable rates. Inquire at the bar.

That was my life.

Was.

Past tense.

My parents worked hard and raised us to believe that if you studied diligently and applied yourself you could do anything you set your mind to. Anything. We never starved and we seldom wanted. We learned the trade and helped out around the place. They swore they would be just as happy to pass the business on to the sixth generation, but we knew they hoped most of us would find an easier way of life.

We knew we were better off than many, even on Dyton it was possible to starve in quiet desperation. We watched. We learned. We worked. We fought and laughed and grew up, then my older sister and three big brothers moved on to other things. We kept in close contact and they came back to visit when they could.

I was going to a good academy, learning business and management. Not exactly exciting stuff, but useful since it looked like I was the one child most likely to carry on the family tradition of feeding and lodging. Halfway through my third year my father had a massive heart attack. One too many big kegs to wrestle at his age. Gone. That fast.

I went back to help my mother hang on to the tavern. I’d have to pick up marketing as I went along then show them a thing or two when I went back to school, Mom joked. We both knew I’d probably never be able to get time and money in the same place again for that unless there was a mass migration to the Colony.

We kept up the liquor license. We had to or we’d have shut the doors in a week. One lousy inspection when we couldn’t afford the bribe and the kitchen was shut up tight. It was a new inspector, the old family friend had retired a year earlier. You could have eaten off that floor. The equipment was old but in good repair. The hun dan said he’d take it out in trade. Mother declined and advised him exactly what would happen if he extended the offer to her