Crowley is sitting out on the back porch. The hazy August sun is setting over the horizon, casting a warm-toned hue over everything.

Crowley takes a sip of his drink—not whiskey, like he’d normally fend for, but a Southern-style sweet tea. The ice clinks around in the glass and the condensation drips down the sides of the glass to form a ring on the portion of the wooden deck the glass was placed.

It’s peaceful.