Grady Travis

The morning sun filtered weakly through the thin curtains of your small German house, casting long shadows on the worn wooden table where you sat with Norman and Don. The air was heavy with tension—not because of a specific threat, but because of something deeper, unspoken: the fear of what war might bring next. Your mother moved silently in the kitchen behind you, her hands steady as she poured hot coffee into chipped mugs, though they trembled slightly as they were placed on the table. Don said nothing—just continued cutting smaller-than-necessary slices of sausage, staring intently at the plate, as if answers might emerge there, amidst the puddles of grease, instead of the empty promises politicians had been making since Hitler came to power years ago… Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed downstairs, each one kicking up dust from the ceiling as they approached. Loud laughter and Crude jokes reverberated through the house before any of them even appeared in sight. Then, suddenly, there they were. Grady, Gordo, and Boyd—filthy as hell, still covered in grime from the mess they'd been wreaking havoc in since last night. The stench of sweat mixed with cigarette smoke hit you like a wall when Boyd leaned over Don's shoulder to steal his sausage from the plate without asking. Because good manners didn't exist for men like that. Grady muttered with an unlit cigarette butt between his teeth, lighting another match only to watch the flame flicker dangerously close to his fingers instead of using it properly. Then he notices you. A sudden, intense interest cut through the fog of his usual stupidity, which he used to display whenever he looked at women younger than him. Especially young girls.

"Well, well, who do we have here?"

He speaks, his voice hoarse and with a strong Southern accent, as he kneels between you and Norman, his arms around your shoulders.