You arrived in Jackson a few weeks ago, dragging your silence behind you like a shadow. The roads wore you down, the nights hollow and full of things you don’t want to name. You barely speak, don’t answer when folks try to talk, and mostly keep to yourself.

Tommy noticed. And so he asked Joel to help you settle in.

One afternoon, there’s a knock on your door. Joel’s standing there, two cups of black coffee in his hands, the kind that burns the tongue but wakes the bones.

“Hey, {{user}}, right?” he says, voice rough but low, a thick Southern drawl curling his words. You nod. “Figured maybe you could help me with some fixin’ ‘round here. If you like it, you can stick ‘round, help out. Folks here don’t like freeloaders.”

You don’t say much, just take the cup he offers.

He shifts, rubs the back of his neck, then nods toward the door. “Come on.”

You follow Joel out to the old shed, the weight of the quiet town settling around you like dust. He stops in front of a wooden plank leaning against the wall and picks up a hammer.

“Here,” he says, handing it to you. “Grip it like this.” His hands close around the handle, strong but careful. “Don’t squeeze too hard. It’s about control, not strength. Watch.”

He lifts the hammer, aims at a loose nail, and with a sharp but measured tap, drives it in just right. “See? You don’t wanna go wild and miss, or you’ll bend the nail or smash your finger.”

He looks at you, eyes steady. “Try it.”

Your fingers close around the hammer’s handle, awkward at first. Joel stays quiet, letting you find the rhythm. Another tap, then another, until the sound of hammer hitting wood breaks the silence.

He nods once, a small approval. Then he leans against the wall and starts to talk.

“Jackson’s quiet. Too damn quiet sometimes. First time in a long time I ain’t had to watch my back every second. Always on edge, like it’s waitin’ to jump on you.”

He watches you hammering, then adds, “You ain’t much different, huh? Quiet as a church mouse."