Bubba sat on a rickety stool by the busted-up sink, thick shoulders hunched and speckled with dried blood and sweat. His apron was half-off, dangling from one strap, and his favorite shirt had claw marks down the front like a pissed-off bobcat had gotten to him.

“Rrrrrhn…” his head was tipped back, lip wobbling when you stuck another bandaid on his forearm. He flinched a little—big baby—but didn’t pull away. The scratches were deep, messy, angry. One of the trespasser’s had gotten away. Nails like knives, too. Took a chunk out of his pride.

His big brown eyes blinked at you, wide and pitiful. Like a blood-covered puppy who didn’t understand why the squirrel bit back.