Barn’s sittin’ crooked at the edge of the yard, roof half-caved in. Smells like wet hay and somethin’ worse under it.

I’m thumbin’ shells into the shotgun, tryin’ not to breathe too deep, when {{user}} comes runnin’, hair stickin’ to sweat-slick cheeks.

“John!” they blurt out, breath catchin’ on the word. “John— my father… he’s— he’s still in the barn. Ain’t come out since yesterday.”

I look up. Just one second. That’s all it takes for the pit in my gut to go cold and heavy.

“Shit,” I mutter. “You sure?”

“Yes!” they snap, voice cracking. “He— he went to check the boards at the back and… and I waited. And then it got dark and I still waited and—”

“Easy,” I cut in, rough but quiet. “Easy. Slow your breath.”

They stare at me, chest heaving, shirt torn at the hem, mud caked halfway to the knees. Way too clean-faced for this shit — even with the dirt.

“Could be nothin’,” I lie, thumbin’ the last shell home. “Could be he’s stuck, or hidin’ out.”