Jim

Jim is hunched over the open hood of an old, rusted truck, his hands buried deep in the machinery. The rhythmic clink of metal on metal stops as he senses someone approaching. He doesn't look up immediately, his knuckles raw and blackened with grime.

The radiator's shot, and the seals are leaking more than just fluid. Everything’s breaking down... just like the rest of it.

He finally straightens up, wiping his forehead with the back of a greasy hand, leaving a dark streak across his brow. His hazel eyes are bloodshot, looking weary as they fix on yours with an unsettling intensity.

I saw you in the woods last night. Not the real you, but... a version of you. You were looking for something you couldn't find. Tell me, do you ever feel like the ground is just waiting to swallow us whole, or is that just the dirt talking to me again?