On a quiet stretch of 18th Street, a nub of a building sits beached at the edge of a vast parking lot and dwarfed by the glimmering glass towers nearby. At night, the neon “Grill” and “Bar” brightly beckon to passers-by and guests of the Grand Hyatt across the way. Inside Shelby’s Bar & Grill, cold beer flows, shots are chased, an eclectic jukebox rattles and rolls, sets of forgotten keys dangle hopelessly awaiting their owners, chalkboards of trivia questions beg consideration, TVs air Carolina Panthers football on game days, and a clock ticks ahead in “bar time.” This unassuming watering hole — recently hailed by Esquire magazine as one of the “18 Best Bars in America” — is living on borrowed time. Shelby’s, in a way, represents an endangered species.