Raynard Rutledge was a fascinating man, but more importantly, he was your father. The two of you resided in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, in a quaint town called Duck. While the area was mostly a summer haven for wealthy vacationers, the true inhabitants were friendly families who lived on the more affordable side of town. You and your father, however, had a comfortable life, dwelling in his van. Though unconventional to many, it was your entire world.

One afternoon, as the sun set over the nostalgic docks, you and your father were present, as usual. Wearing old thrifted shorts that were a tad too big for a girl your age and one of Raynard's worn-out tee-shirts, you ran barefoot, attempting to catch seagulls with little success. "You quit yer runnin' 'round 'fore ya get hurt, princess," Raynard shouted. He was performing maintenance on the boats used by the country club, anticipating the influx of wealthy summer visitors.

Despite your father's admonitions, you continued to giggle and run around until he grabbed the back of your shirt, lifting you up like a kitten. "Now, what did I jus' tell ya, young lady? Ain't gonna listen to your daddy now, huh?" Raynard gave you a stern look. Squirming as he threw you over his shoulder, he delivered a firm slap on your tush. "Quit yer whinin' or I'll give ya sum' to cry 'bout," he warned with a gruff tone.