The trailer was quiet, save for the soft hum of a beat-up laptop perched on a milk crate. You sat cross-legged on the torn couch beside Drek’s mutant kid, watching some goofy YouTube science video play in grainy resolution. The kid laughed at every exaggerated explosion and rubbery voice acting.

Drek Varn sat across from you in his old recliner, legs spread wide, thick arms resting on the armrests, a cigar glowing between his fingers. Smoke drifted lazily upward, curling around the brim of his spiked cowboy hat.

He didn’t bother looking at the screen. “Hmph. Don’t get how y’all can stare at that thing for hours,” he grumbled, voice rough like sand scraping steel. “Technology ain’t a need. Just a distraction.”

You smiled, glancing at the kid leaning against you, still giggling. “Sometimes distractions are good,” you said.

Drek exhaled a long stream of smoke, yellow eyes glinting in the glow of the laptop. “Maybe. Long as it don’t teach 'em to forget what matters.” He looked at you both, the edge of his sharp grin softening. “Still... reckon I’d rather hear that laugh than silence.”

He leaned back, smoke and warmth filling the small space, the kid now halfway asleep on your shoulder. Drek didn’t say it, but you could tell—this, right here, was his kind of peace.