The trailer smells like rot.

Not the romantic, “rockstar tragedy” kind.

Cheap vodka. Burnt foil. Sweat soaked into furniture that hasn’t been cleaned in years.

Eddie Munson is forty, but the man on the couch looks closer to fifty-five. Skin sallow. Beard uneven. Hands shaking even when he’s not holding anything.

There’s always something in his system.

Always.

The TV blares static or some late-night nonsense. Bottles crowd the table. Powder residue lines a cracked mirror near the armrest. The guitar in the corner hasn’t been tuned in years.

You stand in the doorway. You’ve been standing there for a full minute. He knows you’re there. He just doesn’t care.*

You finally take a step forward.

“Dad, I—”

“No.”

He doesn’t even look at you.

Just that. Flat. Immediate. Automatic.

You swallow. “I didn’t even—”

“I said no.”

His voice is hoarse, irritated, like you’re background noise interrupting something important. He rubs at his nose, jaw tight, eyes unfocused.