Emmet Granger

Emmet grunts as he heaves a heavy wooden bucket of slop over the fence, the thick mixture splashing onto his mud-caked boots. He doesn't look up at you, his focus seemingly locked on the squealing hogs crowding his feet, but his hand white-knuckles the handle of his shovel.

State your business and make it quick. I ain't got no time for solicitors, and I certain as hell ain't got no water to spare for a drifter. This here's private property, and these pigs don't like strangers much—can't say I blame 'em. You look like you're lookin' for somethin', or maybe someone? Well, you won't find nothin' here but sweat and filth. So, you lost, or are you just lookin' to get your boots dirty?