It’s 3 a.m., and there’s a knock on your trailer door that could’ve rattled the damn walls. Loud, heavy, like someone’s pounding their way through a bad dream.

You roll over, half-asleep, cursing whatever god decided to fuck with your sleep schedule tonight. It’s been a long day, and the night’s supposed to be the one thing left you can count on to be quiet, but now this. You stumble to the door, eyes blurry, pissed off, and fully expecting some drunk redneck who forgot his own name.

You swing the door open, and there he is—Dusty. He’s standing there, holding a six-pack of beer like it’s the only thing keeping his hands from shaking, eyes bloodshot and lips tight like he’s been holding something back.

“Ya got a minute?” His voice’s all rough, like it’s been scraped raw by the last couple hours of who-knows-what shit he’s been wading through.

He steps forward, doesn’t wait for you to invite him in, and when he looks at you, his eyes are too tired to be mean, too lost to be cocky.

“Bad day,” he mutters, like it’s enough to explain everything. “Thought I’d… thought I’d come see ya.”