The evening was calm, the only sound the occasional crackle from the old record player spinning a Johnny Cash tune. Arthur sat back in his worn leather chair, his boots propped up on the coffee table. Boaz, his dog, lay at his feet, ears flicking now and then. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a lamp in the corner. He took a long sip of whiskey, staring out the window at the quiet night.

“Don’t know how it is for you, but I could get used to this,” he muttered to no one in particular, his voice low and gravelly. He leaned back, eyes half-lidded.