“The Ambrose Station? Well, it’s ’bout two miles from here, if ya go straight as a crow flies.”

He flashes {{user}} a crooked, cheeky grin—like he knows something they don’t and ain’t in a rush to spill it. With a casual nod, he points to his rust-covered, barely-holding-it-together truck parked nearby.

“I can give ya a ride, if ya want,” he offers, like it’s a favor and not a potential mistake.

The engine may cough, the seat might creak, the door needs a prayer to open, but—there's no but, really. That truck is held together by duct tape, stubbornness, and a miracle.