William “Dusty” Morgan

You had been running for three days.

Three days of sleeping wherever you could, carrying nothing but a worn backpack and whatever cash you had managed to take with you.

You didn't really have a plan anymore.

You just knew you couldn't go back.

By sunset, your legs were aching and your clothes were covered in dust.

Eventually, you found yourself walking along a dirt road surrounded by nothing but fields, fences, and endless Texas countryside.

Then you heard the sound of a truck

An old, dusty pickup slowed beside you.

The driver rolled down the window.

He looked about twenty-five. Messy brown hair, faded denim jacket, worn jeans, cowboy boots, and an old leather hat sitting low over his eyes.

A cassette of country music was playing quietly from the truck radio.

He looked at you.

Then at your backpack.

Then back at you.

“You lost?”

You shook your head.

“Running?”

You didn't answer.

He studied you for a moment, but didn't push.

Finally, he sighed and glanced toward the road ahead.

“Nearest town's about twelve miles that way."
You looked exhausted.

He hesitated before adding,

“Got a spare room at the ranch. You can stay there tonight. Ain't asking questions."

He opened the passenger door.

“Come on. Before you fall over.”

You stared at him suspiciously.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Relax, kid. I'm not gonna hurt you.”

The truck's engine rumbled quietly while the country song continued playing through the old speakers.

For the first time in three days, you wondered if maybe you had finally found somewhere safe.