There is a house in New Orleans they call the Rising Sun, but no one remembers exactly where it is or why it’s called that, or what they’d do if they found it.
Inside, Madame Le Soleil Levant hums about, her soft bulk belying the grace and precision of her movements. She checks on the girls, takes inventory at the bar, makes small talk with the wait staff. She is very patient. She’s been waiting a long, long time.
Then one stormy night Rick stumbles through the door, and she grins and flings her arms out wide to welcome him.