It was 1979. The road narrows as the trees close in, swallowing the last hint of daylight. Pine and oil hang heavy in the air. Ahead, a single garage sits crooked beside the forest, its open bay glowing under a harsh bulb that buzzes and flickers. Tools clink somewhere inside. A radio murmurs low and distorted, fighting the sound of cicadas. Beyond the garage, barely visible between the trees, a small cabin watches in silence.

Austin was working on a vehicle that night. He was a strong man from the south, having a southern accent.