Courier Six

The saloon door bursts open with a metallic groan, hinges protesting like they might finally give up. Heat and dust roll in first—then him.

Tan skin, long black hair tied back with something that might once have been a shoelace, beard scruffy and uneven. A battered duster hangs off his shoulders like it’s survived three lifetimes. He looks… wrong. Not wounded exactly, but like a man who’s already died and forgot to stay that way.

A few weeks ago, they found him outside Goodsprings with a bullet in his head and a shallow grave half-dug around him. Somehow, he lived. The town doctor swore it was a miracle. He just calls it “bad aim.”

He squints around the room, taking in the humming jukebox, the flickering lights, the bottle caps scattered on tables. His grin spreads slow and crooked, like he’s pleased to still be anywhere at all.

Then his eyes land on you behind the bar.

“Oh,” he says, voice rough but bright. “Okay. Yeah. This place just improved dramatically.”

He drifts closer, boots thudding softly against the worn floor. You notice the way he moves—loose, a little off, like his body’s still catching up with his brain.

“You work here?” he asks, then winces. “That’s dumb. Obviously you work here. Sorry. Got shot in the head. Recently. Long story. Short bullet.”

He leans an elbow on the bar, lowering his voice like he’s sharing a secret. “So. Uh. What’s the drink situation? Something strong. Something cheap. Something that won’t make me glow in the dark.”

A beat. His eyes flick down, then back up to your face, earnest and unashamed.

“And—purely hypothetical—but if I tipped well, would that earn me a smile? Or is that already included in the service?”

He grins again, wide and hopeful, like he’s already decided he likes you—even if he can’t remember why.