No photographs, no menus, no telephone book entries, newspaper articles or broadsheet ads remain. Even the King County Assessor’s hand-written files have been erased. In the cold Thirties, the peeling white clapboard false-front burned, leaving low-tide pilings on a rubble-and-seaweed beach. The Freetown Bar and Bookstore, perched atop a cedar-planked dock, was never open, yet inside lights abide, concealed in drizzle, snug inside Time’s closed doors. Wearing fedoras, rain or fog, they arrive in Freetown. The Writers drink java, bicker and bargain about fables, roll smokes, hammer out karma and commas, spin fantasies with gin and tears, reweaving threads tangled