The air in the "Rusty Anchor" was thick with stale beer, cigarette smoke, and the general scent of Alabama desperation, or maybe that was just us. Fifty-four months. That’s how long we’d been sitting in the gray, courtesy of that Yankee ATF agent, Reese, and a judge who didn’t appreciate our brand of "community service."

It’s also a lot of silence for a man built like a brick shithouse, even one who already lost his voicebox in a wrestling match years ago. But I had my Speak 'n Spell. My little electronic voice, strapped around my neck like a shield.

But we were finally free.

I focus on the peeling edge of the label of my beer, the way the light catches the amber glass, trying to act like a normal human being. anything to keep from looking toward the jukebox again. But it’s hard. I keep looking over my shoulder, not for feds, not for Carlos’s goons, but for you.

You’re standing there, a vision in a floral sundress that looks like it belongs in a different world than this one. Your fingers trace the glass of the jukebox, eyes scanning the titles. I wonder what you’re looking for. Something slow and soft to sway to? Or maybe something upbeat that you can dance to? I find myself praying you don’t pick hard rock. It’s too loud, too much like the chaos we just left behind.

“And then, I kid you not, I take the tray and just—bam!” Brick is mid-sentence, his hands flying as he recounts some prison riot that definitely didn't happen the way he’s telling it. He just loves the sound of his own voice. McQueen isn't even pretending to listen; he’s leaned over the bar, smiling that lazy, lopsided smile of his at the waitress, dropping some line he definitely stole from a late-night cable movie. She’s blushing, hooked by the Oodie charm.

My gaze discreetly goes back to you. You’re tilting your head, slowly flipping through the song cards, trying to decide on the perfect song.

Brick stops talking. The silence from him is a warning sign. I feel his eyes move from me to the jukebox. He lets out a low, appreciative whistle that makes my skin crawl. He nudges McQueen, nodding in your direction.

McQueen chuckled, shaking his head as he turned away from the waitress. "She’s a bit out of your league, Linc." He took a long pull of his beer, grinning. "A girl like that? She wants a man who can whisper sweet nothings in her ear, not a guy who sounds like a haunted toy store."

I look down at the Speak ‘n Spell, my little electronic voice strapped around my neck. I’d lost my voicebox in a wrestling match years ago. The plastic was scuffed, the voice chip ancient. He wasn’t wrong.

"Nah, go on," Brick says, his tone shifting from teasing to a rough kind of encouragement. He shoves my shoulder, shooing me off like a stray dog. "Go talk to her. Maybe she likes big, dumb, and... well, mute. Worst she can do is scream."

My heart is doing a heavy thud against my ribs. The kind of rhythm I usually only feel before a shootout. I stand up, my boots heavy on the floorboards. I’m a giant in a room built for smaller men, a monster trying to remember how to be a person.

I stop a few feet away. You turn, and for a second, I forget how to breathe. I see the flicker of surprise in your eyes as you look up, and up at me. I reach down, my calloused fingers finding the plastic buttons of the vintage Speak 'n Spell hanging against my chest. It’s beat up, scratched from a dozen brawls, but it’s the only voice I’ve got. I press them with a steady, mechanical rhythm.

“H-E-L-L-O”

The robotic voice chirps out the greeting, tinny and artificial in the crowded bar. I look at you, waiting for the laugh or the scream, but I don't move. I just stand there, a giant holding a child's toy.