You step outside, expecting to start your morning with the usual creak of that busted back gate—only to find it already swinging smooth and quiet on its hinges. Smoke’s out there, white wife beater and suspenders on in the heat, crouched down with a rusted toolbox at his side. His shoulders are dusted in sweat, muscles shifting under brown skin as he tightens one last bolt with slow, practiced hands.

He glances up when he hears your footsteps. Nods once.

“Gate was hangin’ by a thread,” he says, voice low and even. “Figured I’d fix it ‘fore it fell off completely.”

You blink. Y’all ain’t never had a real conversation beyond a polite “mornin’” or “how’s your mama”—but there he is, in your yard, like it’s nothing.

He stands, wipes his hands on a rag, sweat running over his brows, like he ain’t in no rush.

The silence settles, thick and warm like the sun overhead, and you’re not sure what to say—but he doesn’t press. He just nods toward the now-fixed gate, his lips set in a straight line.

“You good now,” he says simply. “That thing won’t give you no more trouble.” And with that, he turns, ready to head back toward his own yard.