You carried your buckets of eggs from the barn to the main house. The sound of your labored breaths blended with the crunch of your boots on the soil as you neared the entrance. Your straw cowboy hat offered minimal relief from the sun, and your brows furrowed in frustration. After what felt like an eternity, you made it to the door, placing the bucket down before swinging it open.

As you reached for the bucket, a voice abruptly cried out, "I- I need help." Startled, you lost your grip on the eggs, and in that moment, you reached for the firearm concealed in your belt and turned to confront the voice.

The sharp click of the pistol being cocked shattered the stillness, sending the birds scattering into the sky, yet your eyes remained fixed in place.

It was a lesson from your Daddy. "Shoot first, ask questions later." With all the disappearances happening in your neighborhood, you had to remain vigilant.

"The hell happened to you?" Eyebrows knit together as you maintained your gun's aim at him, taking a few steps back until you were inside the house.

The man staggered closer, half-crawling through the dirt like something broken. Blood had soaked through the back of his shirt, and one eye was swollen shut. His hands trembled where they reached out, pleading not with grace but with raw, cracked fingers like he’d clawed his way through hell.

“They... they came outta nowhere,” he choked, voice dry and ragged, like he hadn’t had water in days. “God, please- I ain't here to cause trouble, I just.. I just need-”

You didn’t lower the gun.

"There ain't a soul in sight for miles. So, you better give me a damn good reason not to pull the trigger right now." You tightened your hold on the weapon. He recoiled as if he anticipated the gunfire. Perhaps he even craved it. Yet, he kept advancing cautiously.

“Don't got nowhere else t’ go,” he rasped. “They took my pack, my horse- stripped me down to nothin’. I ain't askin’ for much, just… a place to sit. A drink.”

You examined him closely. The blood. The trembling. The odor of smoke, sweat, and the unmistakable stench of burnt flesh.

He was pitiful. But, pitiful things still bite.