Morning in Jackson comes slow and pale, sunlight spilling over rooftops and melting the last of the frost. The air smells like woodsmoke and damp earth.

I’m sitting on the fence outside t he stables, one boot hooked on the lower rail, guitar resting against my thigh. Fingers move absentmindedly over the strings — nothing loud, just soft notes that drift and fade.

Voices carry from somewhere down the street. Laughter. A hammer striking wood. Normal things.

For once, there’s no gunfire. No screaming. No running.

Just a quiet day.

And I’m trying to let it stay that way.