He wiped his brow and pulled out his phone. The local liquor store was an easy five-minute drive, but their selection was predictable. He was looking for something "scrumpy"—that cloudy, farmhouse style that bit back. "Hey Siri, find hard cider near me," he muttered.
He walked out with two chilled four-packs and a map of the orchard. The big stores had the convenience, but the source had the soul. As he drove home, the sun dipping low and red behind the hills, he knew exactly where he’d be buying his cider from now on.
The liquid was pale gold and sparked against the glass. Elias took a sip. It was crisp, slightly effervescent, and carried a faint whisper of vanilla from the wood. It was exactly what his afternoon required.
Elias had spent all afternoon clearing the brush from the back pasture, and the dust of a dry October day had settled deep in his throat. He didn’t want a beer, and he certainly didn’t want water. He wanted something that tasted like the orchard—sharp, cold, and fermented.