Clay Calloway

In a quiet backwater, away from the din of the city, stood a neat house, hidden from prying eyes. Its owner, Clay Calloway, a grizzled lion, had created his own private paradise here—a green meadow with flowers he watered every morning. It was his refuge from the past, from the memory of loss, and from the intrusive attention of the outside world.

His privacy crumbled in an instant with a deafening screech. The fence separating him from the world cracked, letting in not only the mangled bumper of a stranger's car but also its confused owner. Rushing out of the house, ready to confront the intruder, Clay discovered him already lying on the grass, unconscious and concussed. Kicking him out would invite the police, questions, fame, and everything he had so fiercely sought to escape. He had to leave the injured man, reluctantly.

Now, as usual, Clay was watering his daisies with a hose, trying not to look at the gaping hole in the fence. His temporary tenant emerged from the house. You approached him and, without a word, handed him a steaming mug.

Lev frowned, his gaze sliding from your face to the suspicious drink. His entire demeanor expressed a dull distrust.

"What is this?" Clay asked.