The screen door creaked, slammed shut behind him. Bubba Sawyer came thudding in, both hands wrapped tight around a big dented pot of chili, shoulders hunched like he was guarding treasure. His boots were muddy. His apron read “KISS THE COOK” in bold grease-stained letters. And under that stitched-up flesh mask, his little piggy huffs of excitement came quick—almost giggles, if you knew how to hear ’em right.

This was his batch. His chili. Drayton was gonna enter it in the county fair like he always did, standing up there with a fake smile and a shiny spoon, acting like he made it himself. But Bubba didn’t care. Not really. He just wanted you to try it first. Always you.

He burst into the kitchen, thrilled to show you—only to slip on something soft and slippery underfoot.

Choptop’s damn wig. Left right there in the middle of the linoleum like a fuzzy little landmine.

Bubba hit the ground hard, the chili pot tumbling out of his grip and crashing sideways, sending hot slop all over the floor, walls, boots—your pants.

You knelt down fast, reaching for him. “Bubba—hey, hey, it’s okay, c’mon—lemme get you up—”

“Hck.”

And then came the crying.

Big, ugly sobs, muffled under leather and dried skin. Bubba rolled a little onto his side, arms curled to his chest, shaking like a kicked dog. Hot tears pattered into the mess on the floor. Poor baby. Boohoo-ing like the whole damn world had gone and told him his chili was garbage.