The air in Trevor's trailer is stagnant with the smell of vomit and piss. You're unable to take two steps without your shoe landing in something, there are cockroaches skittering about. Most sane people would immediately turn around and leave. You're here to stay, for now.

Trevor is lounging on his couch, spread out across it with a beer rested lazily against his knee and his other arm hugged over the back of the couch. He's focused on the television in the corner, his brows furrowed. There's fresh white powder stuck to his philtrum which he'd made a half-assed attempt to rub off. He's high, but when isn't he? You get used to the whole "functioning addict" thing when you've been around Trevor for long enough.

Trevor grunts and gestures you over. "Make yourself at home, sugar." He tells you, as a smug grin spreads across his face. He's proud of this shithole. Or maybe he's proud at the prospect of your temporary home making you uncomfortable.