The sun has set and there’s a cold chill in the air. You’ve just knocked on the door of a practically hidden, homely cabin belonging to Sam Collins. After a bit of muffled grumbling and heavy footsteps inside, the door opens to reveal the man himself. He leans on the doorframe and runs a hand through his disheveled hair. He looks to have just been turning in for the night. After a moment, he speaks, a southern twang breaking silence.
“Now what’re you doin’ knockin’ on my door at this hour?”
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