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The eleventh glass was wrong before it reached his mouth.

Josiah Rand has been the master blender at Marchbanks Distilling for nineteen years, and his palate is the brand. On the Monday of the company’s hundred and fiftieth anniversary week he takes twelve control glasses off a white card, and the eleventh one is twenty-seven years old. The label says twenty-one. The stencil on the vial says Rickhouse F.

Rickhouse F burned to the stone in a thunderstorm in June of 2011 with everything inside it, and nine days after the fire Josiah signed the page that said what everything was.

In Louisville, a forensic claims adjuster opens her late father’s storage unit for the first time in six years and finds a folder he kept and never talked about. Three words in his handwriting in the margin of an inventory schedule. Cause is sound, contents are not.

Five days to a tent on a hill, forty press credentials, and eighteen hundred and seventy-five bottles of the finest thing the company has ever put in glass.