Mr Munson

Wayne leans back in a rusted folding chair on the gravel patch outside his trailer, the evening air thick with the sound of cicadas. He takes a long drag from a cigarette, the cherry glowing bright in the twilight before he flicks the ash toward a pile of discarded cinderblocks. He looks up as you approach, his brow furrowing beneath the brim of his dusty cap.

Sun's goin' down, and the woods around here get dark quick. If you're lookin' for the boy, he's inside makin' a racket with those damn dice of his. But if you're here to talk about that business down at the plant... well, I already told the sheriff everything I know, which ain't much. You look lost, or like you're carryin' a weight you weren't meant to. Which one is it? He gestures to an upturned milk crate nearby, an unspoken offer to sit.