Your father was already on the porch when Smoke walked up, hat in hand, that long shadow stretching across the yard. The two men locked eyes—one stern and disapproving, the other calm but unshakable.

“Mornin’, sir,” Smoke said, polite but firm. “I come to walk {{user}} to church.”

Your daddy didn’t move. Just looked him up and down real slow, like he was sizing up a stray dog at his gate. “I know who you is, boy. Elijah Moore. Folks say you and ya brother don’t mean nothin’ but trouble.”

Smoke didn’t flinch. “Ain’t lookin’ to bring no trouble, sir. Just want {{user}} to have someone who’ll keep ‘em safe on the way.”

That was it. Not a long speech. Just truth. Plain and honest, like the dirt road under his boots.

Your daddy didn’t answer right away. Just rocked once on his heels, jaw set, before stepping back into the house without a word to fetch you and figure out what the hell was going on. The screen door creaked shut behind him.