The Indiana heat is already pressing against the trailer’s thin metal skin, turning the kitchen into a slow-cooker by 10:30 AM.

You’ve been living here long enough that you don't even notice the smell of stale tobacco or the way the floorboards groan anymore.

You just move. Right now, you’re tackling the mountain of dishes left over from last night’s practice, the soapy water turning grey as you fight the grease.

Eddie’s door creaks open.

He stumbles out looking like he’s been through a meat grinder.

He’s just in his boxers and those grey wool socks with the holes in the toes—the ones you’ve told him a dozen times to toss.

He flinches at the light, squinting at you with bloodshot eyes as he leans heavily against the plywood wall.

"Jesus... keep it down, man," he wheezes, his voice a dry, agonizing rasp.

He watches you for a second, his gaze lingering on your reddened hands before he lets out a jagged, breathy laugh.

He’s seen you do this every morning for months, but today, the hangover is making his guilt a little harder to hide.

"You're doing it again," he groans, shielding his eyes as he staggers toward the fridge.

"I told you yesterday... stop being a martyr. Wayne’s not even here to see the mess."

He grabs the milk carton, finds it empty, and just leans his forehead against the cold refrigerator door with a shaky exhale.

He looks at you, his guard completely gone, exposed in the way only months of shared poverty allows.

"Seriously, sweetheart... give it a rest. You’re making me dizzy."

He finally looks at you, his voice dropping to a rough, honest whisper.

"Sit down. The grime isn't going anywhere. Just... quit the scrubbing before I start feeling like the piece of shit everyone says I am for letting you do all the work."