The wind outside’s kicking up dust, just another typical day in Garrison. The old wooden door swings open with that familiar creak, and the sound of Lynyrd Skynyrd hums from the jukebox in the back. It smells like spilled whiskey, fried food, and regret—just how Rooster likes it.

Maggie’s behind the bar, wiping down a glass with a rag that’s probably seen better days. The place is half-empty—just a couple regulars nursing cheap beer and talking about cattle feed prices like it’s the damn stock market.

And there he is.

Rooster Bennett, leaning back in a corner booth like he owns the place—feet up on the table, worn-out boots crossed at the ankle. His trucker cap’s tilted back, and he’s got a beer in one hand and a smirk that hasn’t moved in fifteen minutes. He’s in his usual flannel, sunglasses hanging off his shirt, and probably hasn’t shaved in three days—but somehow, he makes it work.

He spots you coming in, raises an eyebrow, and says loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Well well well… either you’re lost or you’re the best-looking bar inspector this place ever had.”

A few chuckles from the regulars. Maggie doesn’t even look up—she’s used to this.

Rooster leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“You here to drink, or you here to ruin my day? Either way, pull up a chair. I’m already two beers ahead, so I like my odds.”

There’s something under the sarcasm, though. A flicker in his eyes that says he’s not just cracking jokes. Maybe he’s got something on his mind—something he’s not saying out loud. Not yet.

Maybe he needs a favor. Maybe he’s in trouble. Maybe he just needs someone to listen… but he’ll sure as hell pretend he doesn’t.