 This is Brew, a love story, written by Tracey Ewan's, narrated by Sebastian York. The key to everything is patience. You get the chicken by hatching the egg, not by smashing it. Arnold H. Glazow, Chapter 1 Boyd Macnaughton was losing a lot of blood. At least it seemed like a lot. He wondered how much blood a man could spare before he passed out. Staring down at his hand, fascination quickly flipped to anxiety when he realized he didn't want to find out. Boyd? His pain in the ass brother said, reminding Boyd why he was bleeding and pissed in the first place. I'm fine, he said, grabbing rags off the stack he kept clean by the tanks below the old Foghorn brewery sign. He covered his hand, not ready to catch a glimpse at how not fine things really were. Boyd boasted a decent tolerance for pain, but this was pushing the limit. Come on, man, let's not do this. You're bleeding. As always, little brother, you get a gold star. Now get out of my way before I drop dead right here on the brewery floor. Imagine that insurance claim. He managed to raise his eyebrows in sarcasm as he pushed past Patrick. At least let me drive you. The color is draining from your face. Maybe we should call Boyd was in his truck before he heard the rest of Patrick's assessment. He'd cut his hand, he wasn't having a heart attack. Sure it throbbed and a drop of blood escaped his makeshift bandage and hid his jeans as he turned on to Washington, but he was fine, damn it. The look of shock on Patrick's face was classic. One minute they were in a full heat argument over quality versus quantity and the next his brother's expression fell. Boyd noticed the blood and was more upset that he'd contaminated his workspace than anything else. Then the pain kicked in and every petty concern slipped away. He became singularly focused on breathing and staying upright. Pain was powerful that way. Had he not been the one presently staining his favorite pair of jeans he would have found the whole scene funny. Stopping in a red light he replayed the argument. You promised we'd be ready for bottles and cage last week, Patrick said, doing that pacing thing that drove Boyd nuts. I don't recall promising. Did I pinky swear? He'd asked, focusing on adding more yeast to what he hoped would be his last batch. I know I'm behind. Patrick's hand slapped his sides and Boyd didn't need to look to know his brother was in the middle of a pseudo temper tantrum. Yeah, trick was frustrated but there was nothing. Sample complete. Ready to continue?