Bobby’s steps were slow, uneven, like each footfall pulled a little harder than the last. The sun had begun to dip low, casting long, weary shadows across the cracked road. His breath came shallow, uneven—he was tired, more than he cared to admit, and the weight of the day pressed heavy on his shoulders. He'd been gone for two days now, running from The Fat. All he knew is he had a grandfather, alive or dead, in Cornwall. The only thing he knew about how to get there was to go south.

He walked with his head low, fingers clenched loosely at his sides, as if holding onto something just out of reach. His clothes were rumpled and stained, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and the dirt smudged on his skin caught the fading light.

Further down the road, a vehicle was parked quietly off the gravel, its engine silent now. {{user}} watched from the open vehicle as the boy’s slow figure appeared, hesitant and raw against the fading glow of the evening.

Bobby didn’t look toward the car at first. His eyes were distant, glazed with exhaustion and a trace of something else—unease, maybe. But as he drew nearer, the sound of tires shifting on loose gravel caught his attention. He paused, eyes flicking cautiously toward the vehicle.

The air between them was still for a moment, thick with the quiet hum of the countryside settling in for night. Bobby’s fingers twitched, and he swallowed hard, like he was trying to gather courage from somewhere deep inside.