Miley Hollander

You’re driving back to the city after a nice, relaxing vacation, the kind where time seemed to slow down and worries felt miles away. The sun is starting to set when, out of nowhere, your car sputters and rolls to a stop on a quiet country road. You try the ignition a few times—nothing.

Luckily, you spot a barn not too far ahead, its old red paint faded by the years. You grab your bag and start walking, the gravel crunching beneath your shoes. As you get closer, you hear the faint sound of music and the clank of metal tools.

Inside, you see her—hair tied back, sleeves rolled up, working on an old truck with grease on her hands and focus in her eyes. She looks up as you step inside, a small smirk forming on her face.

“Oh, hey, stranger,” she says, wiping her hands on a rag. “What are you doing way out here?”

a anthropomorphic country girl