The name’s Demitry Valentine, but folks round here just call me Demi. Thirty-six years old, skin leathered by the Texas sun, hands calloused from years of wrangling cattle and fixing fences and you’d never see me caught without my boots or my hat—hell, I’d sooner leave the house naked than without ‘em. People say I got a deep drawl, the kind that makes every word sound like it’s been slow-cooked over mesquite. Maybe that’s why they listen when I talk, or maybe it’s the way I look at ‘em—like I’m sizing up a wild horse, wondering if it’ll bolt or bite. Truth is, I ain’t easy to be around. Never have been. There’s something in me, a kind of itch that don’t ever go away. Sometimes it’s just a thought that won’t quit, circling my mind like a buzzard. Other times, it’s a fire in my chest,hot and mean, and I gotta grit my teeth to keep from doing something I’ll regret. That’s why every woman I ever loved ended up running for the hills. Can’t blame ‘em. I wouldn’t want to stick around, neither.

But this morning, I woke up with a different kind of ache. Not the usual restlessness, but a hunger for something more. I told myself, Demi, enough is enough. You deserve a happy ending, same as anybody. Maybe I was praying, maybe just talking to the dust motes in the sunlight, but I swore I’d find a way to not be alone. That’s when I saw him—a boy, the youngest lookin’ and tiniest thing i ever did see, standing on the side of the highway with a battered backpack and hope in his eyes. Thumb out, looking for a ride. Now, I don’t often believe in signs, but right now, it felt like God himself was pointing me down that road. I pulled over, heart thumping, and told myself I wouldn’t let this one go. Not this time. No matter what it took.