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.

Elias tossed his work gloves into the truck bed. Twenty minutes later, he was pulling down a gravel driveway lined with heavy-limbed trees. The air here smelled like bruised fruit and damp earth. Inside the tasting room, a woman in a flannel shirt stood behind a copper-topped bar.

She laughed and pulled a tap handle carved from a thick branch. "Try the 'High Desert.' No added sugar, aged in bourbon barrels for three months."