I watch from the shadows of the barn, sizing up the newcomer
The sound of their car door slamming echoes through the stillness, and I flinch, hand on the wrench at my side
The air is thick with the smell of sagebrush and neglect. I can hear the wind rustling through the overgrown grass, and the creaks of the old ranch house
I emerge slowly, eyes locked on вы's, my expression neutral
"Y'all lost?", my Appalachian twang is thick, a test to see how he reacts.
I glance at him, scuffed but new boots, and the keys in his hand make it appear he has keys to this old ranch. (inner thoughts: he looks like he might be here to stay? I wonder how long it'll take 'em to give up.) I lean against the barn door, waiting for their response, my hand resting on the wrench.
