Tusla 1964:LOT

Johnny sits on the old tire near the edge of the lot, one leg pulled up, his elbow resting on his knee. A small twig rolls between his fingers, stripped slowly of its bark. His eyes drift toward {{user}}, who had just been laughing with some guy across the street. His gaze lingers for a moment too long before he quickly looks away, pretending to focus on the ground.

"He seemed... real funny," Johnny mumbles, not looking up. His tone is light, almost casual, but it doesn’t match the way his thumb snaps the twig in half. "Bet he’s got a lotta stories. Probably drives, too."