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Chapter Text

The sun was barely crawling over the horizon when Sammie came down the red clay road. Sweat clung to his forehead and the back of his neck; dirt streaked his shirt and stained the knees of his trousers, his palms still rough and soiled from the fields. A heavy sack of cotton sagged against his shoulders as crickets kept up their fading song and the first birds stirred awake in the trees.

For the past week, he had risen before the rest of the house, chasing the day’s light to make sure he met his quota. By the time he was heading home, others were just coming in, neighbors and kin alike, nodding as they passed along the rows. An old man with a limp, a boy hardly bigger than his sack, even a young woman heavy with child, all of them set to work without complaint. Sammie tipped his chin in greeting, sharing a smile here and there, the kind that made the load on his back feel a little lighter.

By the time the house came into view, the sun was already burning down stronger, catching on the tin wash bucket where his mother bent over her work. She scrubbed cloth against the washboard, humming to herself in rhythm with the water. Beyond her, the front door creaked open, and his father stepped out, Sammie’s guitar slung carelessly in one hand, held by its strings, as he started down the porch steps.

He dragged the sack up onto the porch, then skipped a step toward his father.

“Woah, Pop- what you doin’?”

“Good morning, Samuel,” his mother called from the wash bucket, her voice bright as if she hadn’t heard a word of it.

His father’s calm eyes met his, face unreadable. “I was taking it down to the church,” he said evenly. “Figured you might put it to use in tomorrow’s service.”

Sammie let the sack fall heavy on the porch boards with a dull thud. His mother straightened at the sound, wiping her wet hands on her apron as she came nearer, a small smile tugging at her mouth. Sammie tried for a smile back, but his eyes flicked nervously to his father.

“Aw, Ma, you don’t need to be worryin’ over this,” he said, light and pleading all at once, stepping forward to shoo them both toward the doorway. “Come on, please..let’s just talk inside real quick.”

“What- Samuel?” his father snapped, head turning sharp toward him as he was ushered across the threshold. “Boy, what’s gotten into you?” His mother laughed, half-amused by Sammie’s sudden fussing as she let herself be guided indoors.

Sammie shut the door behind them and turned back, meeting the puzzled looks of his parents.

The house was shanty and spare, just two rooms to hold them all. One side made do as a kitchen and dining space; the other was closed off by a wall and a bare doorway, no door to it, where the family slept. Inside, his four younger siblings were still stretched out on the pallet, tangled in quilts, the slow rhythm of their breathing filling the room.

Nerves burned in his gut. He shifted from foot to foot, clasping his hands together to steady himself.

“Listen, um-”

“Boy, you ’bout to ask for something,” his mother interrupted, a knowing smile tugging at her lips.

Sammie’s courage faltered. “I-uh…” He stumbled over his words, throat tight.

“Speak, boy,” his father said, voice low but firm.

“The twins… they’re coming back today,” Sammie said quickly. “I got the chance to call ’em at Bo’s store, and they… they invited me over tonight.”

“No. Absolutely not,” his father cut him off.

“Boy, you’re in and out of this house every other night, you think we don’t notice? Carrying that bane of strings wherever you go, playing for drunkards and philanders, never asked then, did you?”

“I mean… the twins- ” Sammie protested, voice tight.

“And those twins,” his father said, eyes narrowing, voice steady and hard. “You think their return changes anything? You don’t ask for permission often, Samuel, and now you come running with this—just this once. You know I don’t allow you near them.”

He lifted the guitar slightly, the weight awkward in his hands, but his expression didn’t waver. “Why can’t you take this… this passion of yours and put it toward the Lord?”

“Oh, come on-” Sammie interjected, frustration rising.

“Oh, come on?” his father repeated, calm and measured, letting the words hang like a judgment in the room.

From the other room, the soft rustle of his younger siblings stirred Sammie’s mother into motion. She moved between the two men, worry etched across her face.

“Now, hold on just a minute,” she said, voice calm but firm. “It’s too early for all this, Samuel. I know you want to see family, but we need to be reasonable.”

“Ruth,” Jedidiah said quietly, his tone carrying weight.

Silence fell, thick in the room.

“The answer is no, Samuel.”

The sun had climbed high in the sky by the time his father’s words settled into silence, rays pouring through the windows and turning the dust in the air to gold. Then—sharp as a blade—a car horn cut through the stillness.

“That’s… that’s them,” Sammie murmured.

Jedidiah’s gaze turned on him, cold and steady, his frown barely deepening but heavy all the same. His mother, unwilling to let the tension coil tighter, smoothed her apron with damp hands and hurried to the door.

When she pulled it open, two tall silhouettes stood framed in the glare, their figures dark against the morning sun.

“Elijah, Elias,” Ruth gasped, half-stammering, “oh my goodness—you should’ve told me yall’s  coming this early. House ain’t fit for company, Lord help me—”

“Now, Auntie,” Elias drawled, stepping inside like the doorway belonged to him, his dusk-blue jazz suit catching the light. A red fedora tipped rakishly on his head, his grin wide and taunting. “We ain’t company. You know that.” He swept her up in a hug before she could fuss, the brim of his hat nearly knocking against her cheek.

Behind him, Elijah followed at an easier pace, his tweed suit pressed neat, his blue scally cap pulled low. His voice was softer, steadier, as he nodded in greeting. “Mornin’, Ruth. Uncle.”

“Land sakes, y’all done grown near double,” Ruth fussed, her hands wringing even as she smiled.

Elias snorted. “Same size as we was when we left, Auntie. Y’all just been shrinkin’.”

That earned him a sharp look from Jedidiah, but Elias only grinned wider, the picture of trouble waiting to happen. Elijah, quieter, merely tipped his chin toward Sammie, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

The twins’ arrival filled the room in two very different ways. Elias clapped Sammie on the shoulder with a broad grin, then leaned back with a dramatic sniff.

“Lord, boy—you smell like the back end of a mule. You plannin’ on walkin’ into our new place like that?” He tipped his red fedora, grin wide, teeth flashing.

“Elias,” Ruth scolded, flustered. She hurried to the laundry basket, pulling out a clean shirt and thrusting it into Sammie’s arms. “Go on, Samuel, change. Wash your hands too. Can’t have you steppin’ out lookin’ like you just crawled out the ground.”

A shuffle came from the doorway. Sammie’s younger siblings crowded in the frame, hair tousled and eyes wide, half-hiding behind the wall. The oldest girl’s face lit with recognition.

“It’s the twins,” she whispered, almost reverent. The littler ones only giggled at the sight of strangers in fine suits until Ruth flapped her hand at them. “Go on now, back to bed.”

“Go on, back in there,” she said quickly, though a smile betrayed her nerves.

Sammie’s eyes darted to his father, but Ruth was already steering him toward the basin. Once he’d changed, she fussed at his collar and brushed down his sleeves, hands trembling slightly as though she could smooth away his father’s silence.

Jedidiah hadn’t moved. He stood with his arms crossed, eyes locked on the twins like a gate meant to keep wolves at bay.

“You’ll have him back before nightfall,” he said at last, voice calm and heavy as stone.

Elias only smirked, but Elijah Elias stepped forward, tipping his cap in quiet respect. “You have our word, Uncle.” Elias finally spoked, “He’ll be safe with us. Ain’t nothin’ gon’ happen to him under our watch.”

Jedidiah’s stare didn’t waver. Elijah met it evenly, unflinching, until the silence settled thick between them. Then Elias cut it with a quick laugh, tossing Sammie a wink.

“Can’t promise he won’t be different, though.”

The words hung sharp in the dust-filled sunbeams. Ruth’s hands tightened on her son’s shoulders. Jedidiah’s frown deepened, but he said nothing more.

Jedidiah’s hand shifted on the neck of the guitar, still held as if it were proof of his son’s failings. Elias’s eyes flicked to it, his grin sharpening.

“Well now, can’t send the boy off without his strings,” he drawled. Before his uncle could object, Elias plucked it neatly from his grasp, cradling it with a flourish as though it belonged to him all along.

Jedidiah’s jaw tightened, but Elijah laid a steadying hand on his cousin's shoulder and gave a small nod toward the door.

“Come on, Sammie,” Elias said, swinging the guitar into the boy’s arms and steering him forward with an easy clap on the back. “World won’t wait.”

Ruth’s hands lingered at her son’s sleeves, then fell away as the twins ushered him out into the blinding sun. The screen door creaked shut behind them, leaving Jedidiah alone in the dim, his silence heavier than any words.

The men stepped out, the morning heat clinging to them like a second skin. The cicadas were already starting their steady whine. Elias clapped Sammie on the back, steering him toward the car with that sly grin of his.

“Unc ain’t changed a lick,” he muttered, low enough to earn a look from Elijah but not low enough that Sammie missed it.

Sammie hopped into the back seat, the leather worn and hot from the sun. Elijah, Smoke, took the wheel, while Elias, Stack, settled in beside him, cheerful. The engine coughed to life, and as the house shrank behind them, Smoke finally spoke.

“Well then, Sammie,” his voice even, almost too even, “how you been holdin’ up? Your daddy treatin’ you right? He don’t be putting his hands on you, do he?”

Sammie shook his head quickly. “Naw. Ain’t nothin’ like that.”

Smoke spoke without looking over. “And the little ones? Your daddy keepin’ his temper off ’em?”

“Only when they get outta line,” Sammie said easy. “Mostly Ma does the whoopin’.”

Smoke gave a short nod. “Good. Always knew your daddy to be stern, but stern ain’t cruel.”

Sammie grinned a little. “So tell me—Chicago really what folks say? Heard a Black man can walk where he wants, no Jim Crow.”

Stack barked a laugh. “Boy, don’t go foolin’ yourself. North or South, white folks’ll still find a way to put you in your place.”

Smoke’s tone was steady. “Chicago’s just Mississippi with taller buildings, that’s all.”

Stack smirked, leaning back. “That’s why we came back. If the devil’s everywhere, might as well stick with the one we know.”

Sammie leaned into the moment, bold enough to grin. Whatever lay ahead, it already felt freer than home.

Chapter Text

The town stirred the moment the twins rolled back in. One minute Smoke was sliding coins into Bo’s palm for catfish, the next he was haggling Grace for a sign, then dropping bills on a doctor to stitch up some fool who’d crossed them. Stack had Sammie tagging along, strumming a corner tune to pull a crowd while Stack boasted loud enough for the street to hear: “Mill’s opening tonight. Music, food, liquor. Don’t say you wasn’t told!”

Delta Slim cackled once he heard of the money he’d be making, already teasing a tune out of his battered harmonica. Annie promised her kitchen’s grease and bread after Smoke laid a little sack of rootwork in her palm. By sundown, it all blurred; fish frying, whiskey bottles clinking, laughter spilling from the sawmill doors. Someone hammered the crooked sign above the entry, someone else stomped time as Slim’s piano cut through the noise. Sammie sat with his own, strings bright under his hands, the crowd surging closer.

The mill had changed. It wasn’t wood and dust anymore. It was noise, sweat, liquor, music…alive.

Every so often Sammie’s eyes slipped across the room, catching Pearline where the lamplight brushed her cheek. She wasn’t loud about it—never had to be. Just the easy curve of her smile, the way her laugh seemed to make the air bend closer to her. Men noticed. And Sammie, dumb as it was, couldn’t stop the spark that lit in his chest every time.

She had a husband. Said it straight out, not long after they met, though the way she said it, half-smirk, rolling her eyes, made it sound more like a confession than a warning. “He’s boring,” she’d shrugged, and Sammie just grinned. Didn’t matter to Sammie. The ring on her finger only made the whole thing burn hotter. She was older, sharper, more sure of herself than he’d ever be. And sometimes she did look back—eyes catching his, sharp and sure, like she already knew the storm running through his head

But Pearline wasn’t the one tugging him by the collar that night.

“Now listen,” Annie said, her hand firm on his sleeve as she steered him toward the bar. Annie didn’t ask. She moved with the kind of authority that assumed Sammie would follow—and he did. Always did.

“When Delta’s up there and you ain’t singin’, you cain’t just sit out here strummin’ and lookin’ pretty,” she told him, voice sharp as a knife-edge. Her words weren’t cruel, just practical, cutting through the heat and noise with the clarity of someone who knew exactly how the place should run.

Sammie nodded once, no protest in him.

“We ain’t makin’ no money,” she muttered, glancing toward the crowded floor. “Too many wooden nickels, not near enough green, according to Smoke.” She said quieter, eyes pointed.  “The twins still figurin’ how to fix that, but ‘til they do, we gon’ stretch what we got.” She tapped her chin, eyes narrowed in thought. “I’m thinkin’ more food: catfish, cornbread, somethin’ hot that keeps folks drinkin’ longer.”

Before Sammie could so much as set his guitar down, she shoved a tray into his hands, piled high with fried fish and steaming bread. He nearly stumbled under the pace, but her eyes stayed on him, sharp and expectant. Annie wasn’t like the others. She didn’t laugh him off as young, or green, or just another boy with a guitar. She handed him work like she knew he’d carry it, and Sammie found himself steadying under the pressure instead of buckling.

The bar hung thick with the smell of liquor and grease, Annie moving quick as fire, Sammie right behind her, learning her rhythm without a word. She barked an order, he followed. She flipped cornbread from the pan, he caught it on a plate. And though his shirt clung to him with sweat and his hands stung from hot pans, there was a strange pride in it—being part of her pace, her sharpness, her surety.

By the time Annie waved him off with another tray, the stage was calling again. Pearline was lost somewhere in the press of bodies, laughter drifting faint through the din, but Sammie barely caught it this time. The weight of Annie’s work still clung to his shoulders, and for the first time that night, the guitar in his hands felt heavier—like it meant something more.

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

Outside, the night was a heavy dark blue, the moon sharp against the trees. The juke joint spilled warmth through the cracks of its door—orange light, smoke, laughter, the hum of music still ringing. Against that glow, the figure on the deck looked all the stranger.

Scraggly thing. Short brown hair slicked oily against his scalp, suspenders clipped neat over a too-clean white button-down. Odd lookin’, like he didn’t quite belong in his own skin.

“Well,” the man drawled, voice a touch Southern but bent oddly, like another accent tried to break through underneath. “You must be the owner of this establishment.”

Smoke and Stack filled the doorway, Smoke up front, Cornbread hovering off in the corner.

“That’s right,” Smoke said flat. “And you are?”

The man’s head tilted quick, a wide grin flashing across his face.

“Name’s Remmick. Heard tell of a party—drinkin’, music, all alike.”

But then Sammie had wandered too close, curiosity tugging him toward the door. “Hey, Stack. Y’all alright?”

The man’s grin widened, eyes latching onto Sammie. “And you!” he piped, voice too eager. “You must be that beautiful voice I heard. Just wonderful.” He tapped a finger to his lip like the memory sweetened him.

Smoke’s face went stone. He didn’t like this kind. Chipper, too friendly. Judging by the stiff silence at the door, nobody else did either.

Smoke stood firm. “And where you from?”

“Just up the road.”

“And how far’s that?” Stack interjected.

“North Carolina.”

North Carolina. Up the road.

There was something off about him. Walking alone at night. White man at a Black joint, smiling like it was Sunday service. His shirt clung with sweat, his face unshaven, yet his voice carried all the confidence in the world. Smoke’s gut twisted.

“You Klan?”

“Sir!” Remmick blinked, surprise painted across his face. “I—well—I believe in equality. And music. That’s all. Just came here to enjoy some music…spend a little money, enjoy myself. Here, I’ll show you.”

He fished out a roll of cash and three gold coins, glinting in the moonlight. But the money looked borrowed, like it didn’t match the man’s hands, his clothes, his face.

“Oh, shit,” Stack muttered, grin breaking loose as he stepped half out the door.

Smoke threw an arm across him, blocking the way. “Now, hold on.” His eyes never left Remmick.

“Listen,” Smoke said low. “I bet you just lookin’ for a good time. But maybe you best find it elsewhere.”

“I ain’t welcome?” Remmick’s voice cracked quick, like a scolded child.

“I’m sayin’ you turn back down that road. Plenty of white barrelhouses waitin’ for you in town.”

“Oh…” Remmick faltered, blank for a beat. Then his eyes flicked down at his own pale hand. “This ‘cause I’m…”

Nobody answered.

Remmick’s eyes slid toward Mary, resting on her like a hand that lingered too long. His smile curved lazy.

“All right then,” he drawled, “how’d she get in?”

Mary’s shoulders squared. “That’s none of—"

Annie snapped sharper, stepping in front of her. “She here ‘cause she family.”

“Family,” Remmick repeated, savoring the word. His gaze drifted past Annie, past Mary, and landed square on Sammie. It lingered there, steady and unblinking. “Can’t we just, for one night… all be family? Share a little music?”

The weight of it made Sammie shift where he stood, though he didn’t look away.

Smoke’s hand twitched at his gun, and that only made Remmick’s grin stretch wider, like he enjoyed the tension.

“No need for that, sir,” he said lightly, palms raised in mock surrender. “I’ll be on my way. But I’ll walk real slow… just in case you change your mind.”

He tipped his head like a bow, though his eyes slid once more to Sammie before he turned. Each step down the dirt road was deliberate, unhurried. His pale shirt caught the moonlight, glowing stark against the dark until the night swallowed him whole.

Nobody spoke at first.

Annie rubbed her arms. “He gave me the willies.”

“Yeah, well,” Stack muttered, still staring into the dark, “crackers at nighttime’ll do that to you.”

“Wasn’t just that,” Annie whispered.

Something about the man was wrong. Remmick’s eyes stayed on him, not like the crowd earlier, all laughter and clapping, but quiet, fixed, almost tender. It twisted in Sammie’s chest—part pride, part shame, like being caught doing something he didn’t even know was secret. He didn’t have words for the feeling, only that it wasn’t the kind of notice he could laugh off, and it sure as hell wasn’t the kind he could take home. The warmth of it scared him more than the man himself.

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

Something about the man wouldn’t leave Sammie alone. Even with Slim’s last note hanging in the rafters, even with folks yelling and the floor bouncing underfoot, the memory of Remmick’s pale face and the way his eyes had fixed on him sat like a stone in Sammie’s gut. He found himself watching the door more than the crowd, like the dark beyond it might peel back and show the man again.

The juke was roaring, but the stairwell was cool and quiet, a hollow pocket away from the press of music and the smell of tobacco. Mary leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching Stack pace the steps. He kept counting under his breath, thumb dragging along the rail as though he could add the night up different if he just tried again.

“We underwater,” Stack said finally, low.

Mary’s brow pinched. “How?”

“All them plantations payin’ with credit. Wooden chips. They hand ‘em over like money, but it ain’t worth a dime past the fence.” He kicked the wall with his heel, sharp. “We can’t keep floatin’ on that.”

Mary tilted her head, voice steady. “What about that cracker walkin’ in here tonight? That roll in his pocket seems worth it. I could feel him out.”

Before Stack could answer, a voice cut in from the shadows below. “That’s a fool thought.”

Smoke came up slow, shoes heavy on the steps. His eyes narrowed on Mary. “He see you alone, he’ll think you somethin’ to buy. You ain’t walkin’ into that.”

Mary didn’t flinch. “He’d tell me more than he’d tell you.”

“You don’t know what he’ll tell,” Smoke snapped. “What he’ll do. Don’t go invitin’ danger through the door.”

There was a pause — then a quieter voice from the landing above. Sammie had slipped in, hand on the rail, like he’d been listening longer than he meant to.

“I can go,” he said, tone even. “He looked at me before. I’ll stay at the door. Call him over. If he’s straight about it, we’ll know. If not, I’ll shut him down.”

Smoke’s head snapped up. “The hell you will. That man’s eyes on you ain’t a reason to walk into his arms.”

Sammie swallowed, met his stare. “It’s a reason he’ll listen. Promise I won’t go further than the first step.”

Stack glanced between them, a spark in his eye. “Boy’s right. If Remmick’s gonna pay, Sammie’s the one he’ll hand it to. We need the cash.”

Mary looked hard at Sammie, searching his face. There was something in his eyes — unease, sure, but also that flicker of pride he hadn’t been able to bury. She breathed out slow. “Then you don’t leave that doorway. Not one step.”

Smoke’s jaw worked, but he didn’t argue again. He just glared up at Sammie, voice low. “You stay where I can see you. You hear?”

Sammie nodded, hand tightening on the rail. “I hear.”

‿̩͙⊱༒︎༻♱༺༒︎⊰‿̩͙

Sammie stepped into the doorway, the wood frame cool against his shoulder. Cornbread lingered just behind him, arms crossed tight, while Smoke’s eyes pressed heavy on the back of Sammie’s head like a warning.

Out in the lot, the night stretched wide and blue. The moon caught on the tin roof, silvering the dirt and the scattered bottles glinting like little stars. And there was Remmick—sitting on a fallen log as if it’d been placed there just for him. White shirt almost glowing against the dark, suspenders cutting stark lines down his chest. He sat like a man waiting, not just outside the juke, but waiting on Sammie.

Sammie lifted a hand, uncertain, and gave a quick wave. Remmick’s head lifted at once, his face breaking into that too-wide grin, and before Sammie could think of a greetin’, the man had rushed over to the steps, close enough for the night air between them to feel too thin.

“Y’all gon’ let me in now?” Remmick asked, voice light, but his eyes locked straight on Sammie.

Sammie froze. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. They hadn’t discussed this part—only the money. Not whether a man like this could cross the threshold. His mouth went dry.

“Uh…I don’t know about all that,” he started, stalling, “but, uh-”

Remmick filled the silence with his own voice, smooth as ever. “You know, I ain’t never heard a voice like yours.” His gaze swept Sammie like a hand, lingering. “Voice like that oughta be somewhere big. Somewhere brighter than this little mill.”

Heat crept up Sammie’s neck. He shook his head quickly. “Nah. I’m- I’m right where I wanna be.”

“What’s your name, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

“…Sammie,” he said.

Remmick rolled it slow on his tongue, almost savoring it. “Sammie. Short for Samuel, right? That voice…that name. You grew up in a church, I’d bet.”

“I did.”

“Mmm.” Remmick hummed, pleased like he’d guessed some “private” thing. His eyes held Sammie’s for a beat too long.

The quiet hung there, until Remmick finally drew out a fat roll of bills, thick enough Sammie’s chest tightened at the sight. He peeled it halfway open, letting the moonlight catch the green.

“Well,” he said, tilting his head, “if you ain’t lettin’ me in, and if they sent you to talk, I’ll assume you all interested in this?”

Sammie’s throat worked. “I-”

“Ain’t no shame in it,” Remmick cut in, casual, like they were sharing a secret. “But I ain’t gon’ give it up for free. Even if it is you, Sammie, standin’ at the door.”

The way he said his name made Sammie’s stomach knot—somewhere between flattery and something else he didn’t wanna name.

Remmick leaned in a little, voice dropping. “I’ll hand it over if you play me somethin’.”

That’s it? Sammie thought. A whole roll of cash for a song? The man dressed like he needed every cent of it, yet here he was, grinning, wagering it all like music was worth more than bread or rent.

“I couldn’t-” Sammie started, then caught himself. Smoke was right there at the banisters, behind him, waiting on the money. Sammie’s pulse beat against his ribs. He wasn’t here to think too hard—he was here to bring it back.

“Well…” Sammie shifted on his feet. “…what you wanna hear?”

Remmick’s grin widened, sharp in the pale light. “You was raised in the church, yeah? Then sing me the gospel.”

Sammie’s stomach turned. Gospel. His daddy’s music. Wasn’t his first thought when asked to play. But the man’s eyes were burning into him, and behind Sammie he could feel Smoke’s impatience like a weight on his back.

He took a breath, shaky in his chest, and let the words rise soft into the night.

Sammie swung his guitar around, easing down, sitting onto the middle step of the doorway. The warm orange glow of the juke spilled across his back, but it thinned quick, swallowed by the cold spread of moonlight where Remmick lingered. Sammie flicked a glance over his shoulder—Smoke’s jaw was tight, eyes narrowed, watching. Sammie raised a hand. Wait. Just wait.

He strummed low at first, searching for the thread. A hum slipped out, quiet, almost secret, before his voice rose to meet it.

“Just a closer walk with Thee…”

Remmick lowered himself to the ground across from him, cross-legged—like a child—almost reverent. The lamplight never touched him; he stayed carved in blue, like he belonged to the night instead of the room behind Sammie.

Grant it, Jesus, is my plea…

Daily walking close to Thee,

Let it be, dear Lord, let it be.

Sammie let himself drift. Gospel wasn’t his first choice—never had been—but the song swallowed him anyway. Eyes closed, fingers steady, he forgot about the weight of Smoke’s gaze, the strangeness of Remmick’s attention. For a moment, it was just him and the music, unbroken.

When my feeble life is o’er,

Time for me will be no more;

Guide me gently, safely o’er

To Thy kingdom shore… to Thy shore.

Silence pressed down when the last note fell away. Sammie opened his eyes.

Remmick was staring. Not just staring—consuming. His mouth slack, eyes lit like he was watching something divine. A red sheen flicked.

And then Sammie saw it: a shine at the corner of his lips. Drool.

The words slipped out sharp.

“You weird.”

His own hand shot up over his mouth, eyes wide. “I ain’t mean--!”

Cornbread snorted from the doorway, choking back a laugh.

Remmick flinched, then let out a sudden bark of laughter. “Weird? I guess I am. Can’t argue with you there.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still chuckling as he dug into his pocket.

By the time he rose, Sammie had to tilt his head back to look at him. Remmick reached down, bold, wrapping Sammie’s hand in his own. His palm was cold, grip steady, lingering.

“Your voice…” Remmick said, low and intent, “is one of the angels. A gift. A power. I’d pay thousands just to hear it every night.”

Sammie froze. His throat worked, caught between pride and unease. The words landed sweet, heavier than they should, leaving him both lifted and wrong all at once.

Then—heavy footsteps. Smoke.

The moment shattered as Remmick was shoved back hard by the collar.

“Too damn close,” Smoke growled.

Remmick lifted both hands quick. “I’m backin’ up, no need for trouble.”

Sammie glanced down. In his palm—where Remmick had held him—sat a fat roll of bills. All of it.

“Smoke!” Sammie blurted.

Smoke turned back to the steps where Sammie sat, his glare flicking to the cash before yanking Sammie inside by the collar.

You promised—stay on that step.” Smoke’s fist gripped Sammie’s collar tight, his other hand stabbing toward the first step like it was a line drawn in the dirt.

“He gave me the whole thing—” Sammie gasped.

“You leaned damn near out the building. Let him get a hand on you.”

“Cornbread was right here!” Sammie protested.

Stack’s voice cut in from deeper inside, sharp with a grin. “Whoo! All that money, just for you? You kiss him or somethin’?”

“Huh?” Sammie croaked, still breathless from Smoke’s grip.

Stack snatched the roll from Sammie’s hand, snapping the band with his teeth. “Lemme see this.” He licked his thumb and started counting, bills sliding quick under his fingers.

“Twenty, forty, eighty, one-twenty—shee-it. Fool’s wild, but soft as butter left out in the sun.”

Cornbread chuckled low, shaking his head. “All that for a song. Boy musta lost his mind.”

That’s when Mary slipped over, her eyes landing on the roll in Sammie’s hand. Her brow arched high, lips curling sly.

“Well, look at you. Preacherboy out here pullin’ in more than the rest of us. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Sammie’s mouth opened, closed again. Heat pricked at his ears.

Stack swooped in, snatching the roll and thumbing through it loud enough for half the room to hear.

“Don’t let him play shy now. Boy did good. Got that crazy white fella handin’ over bills like it was Sunday offering.”

Mary laughed, plucking a note from Stack’s fingers and flicking it at Sammie’s chest.

“Mmhm. Guess you more than just a pretty voice after all.”

Stack clapped Sammie on the back, grinning wide.

“Don’t get too big a head, cousin. But you did alright. Damn alright.”

Around them, the mood lifted quick. A fresh round of drinks passed hands, folks shouting and clapping like the money had been won in a prizefight. Even Smoke, jaw tight as ever, had to ease a little when Annie came up beside him, sliding her hand on his arm.

“Let it go,” Annie murmured, soft but firm at Smoke’s shoulder. “Boy’s still standin’, ain’t he? Brought back what y’all needed. Saved your asses.”

Smoke’s jaw worked, the muscle twitching. He cut his eyes at Sammie, and for a moment Sammie thought he might catch another tongue-lashing. But the edge dulled. The fire in him burned down to a low simmer.

He grunted, something caught between a growl and a sigh, then turned his gaze back toward the group like he was already done with it.

Sammie didn’t say nothing. His eyes had drifted back to the door. Past the orange glow, past the dirt lot where the cars sat.

Remmick was still there. Standing at the edge of the woods, like he hadn’t moved at all. Watching.

A shiver ran down Sammie’s spine, though the laughter inside was loud enough to rattle the walls. He couldn’t shake the thought—Remmick looked less like a man waiting, more like a man settling in.

He blinked, and someone called his name from the bar. The music picked back up, feet stomping, hands clapping. The world inside the juke reclaimed him, warm and rowdy, and Sammie shoved the unease down deep.

Chapter Text

It was pitch black outside, the moon swallowed by thick clouds. The juke sat lonely in the dark, its walls still humming faint heat from all the bodies that had pressed in earlier. The air inside smelled of liquor, grease, and sweat, but the noise was gone—no more stomping feet, no guitars cutting sharp through chatter. Just the scrape of chairs, the clink of bottles, the shuffle of tired feet trying to set the place right again.

“Two hundred… three hundred… five.”

Stack’s voice carried from the corner table, the low rhythm of bills slapping against the wood. He leaned forward in the lamplight, licking his thumb before flipping another. Marry sat curled beside him, chin propped on her hand, watching with a sly smile. Smoke loomed over both of them, arms crossed, gaze sharp as if willing the numbers higher.

“Well I’ll be!” Stack slapped the last bill down, his grin flashing wide.

Marry tilted her head. “Better than you thought yall’d do, huh?”

Stack chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Half of this from that white man earlier. Shit—he might as well come back every week!”

Marry reached over and plucked a bill, fanning herself with it. “Mmhm. Don’t go forgettin’ who’ll keep count when your thumbs give out.”

That got Stack laughing again, shoulders bouncing, and Smoke let the corner of his mouth twitch—close as he came to a smile. He rested a hand on Stack’s shoulder, gave it a quick squeeze, then tipped his chin at Marry.

“Don’t let him get too proud, girl. Took him three tries just to add up the tens.”

They all laughed at that, Stack trying to defend himself, and Smoke slipped away from the table. His shoes thudded heavy as he crossed the floor, but he didn’t head straight to the bar. He paused at an empty chair and then picked up a glass someone had left behind. Without a word, he carried it to the bar and set it down beside Sammie.

Sammie looked up, rag still working circles inside another cup. Smoke’s bulk filled the space next to him, and for a while the two worked in silence, the clink of glass and faint scrape of rags the only sound. Annie watched them out the corner of her eye, lips quirking but saying nothing.

Finally, Smoke broke the quiet, voice low. “I ain’t mean to be hard on you.”

Sammie continued, as if he aint’ hear him, glass half-turned in his hand, unsure if he heard right. Smoke didn’t look at him, just picked up the glass he’d set down, drying it slow, methodical.

“Your parents entrusted us with your safety,” he went on, jaw tight like the words weren’t easy. “You bein’ our younger cousin, your safety is my responsibility. You growin’ now. Did what you had to do.” His eyes flicked over at Sammie—brief but steady. “Saved our asses. And as a man, I thank you.”

The rag in Sammie’s hand hung limp. For a second, he didn’t know where to put his eyes. Annie nudged him soft with her elbow, a smirk tugging her lips like she wanted to say well, go on then.

Sammie swallowed, throat dry. “Yessir,” he said finally, voice quiet but steady.

Smoke gave him one short nod, then reached for the whiskey bottle. He poured out the last inch into two glasses, slid one to Sammie without asking, and knocked his back in one swallow.

At the table, Stack whooped again, fanning the bills, and Marry plucked another just to tease him. The air in the juke began to lift a little, like the night had exhaled at last.

But Sammie’s eyes drifted to the doorway. Beyond it, the dirt lot stretched wide and dark, the edges of it barely touched by the dim glow leaking from inside. And there—just at the edge where the light fell off—he thought he saw him. Remmick. Pale shirt shining faint in the dark, like he hadn’t moved on at all. Like he’d been waiting.

Sammie blinked, and the shadows swallowed the shape whole.

“Did you at least enjoy yourself?”

“Saw you more in the bar than on stage,” Smoke smirked, leaning against the counter.

“I mean…” Sammie slowed, glancing at Annie, who had her back turned, busy stacking plates. “I had fun. This place… lively. Was this one girl, though… didn’t get a proper conversation before Annie pulled me here.”

“A girl?” Smoke raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, she—”

“She married!” Annie interjected without looking. Sammie let out a quiet sigh, caught off guard that she’d spoken before he could finish.

“Married?! Boy you been sleepin’ through church?” Smoke’s laugh rolled low, then he louder now, deliberately: “So besides performin’ and washin’ dishes, you was talkin’ to a married woman!?”

Stack and Marry perked up from the table, exchanging amused glances.

“What he doin’?” Stack called out, grinning wide.

“Oh my lord,” Sammie muttered, wiping his hands dry, cheeks burning as he realized Smoke had made sure everyone heard.

“Was it that woman at the station earlier? Damn, Cuz, I ain’t know you had the guts!” Stack came over, Marry right behind him, playfully punching Sammie’s shoulder. Sammie flinched but couldn’t help laughing along, even as the punch stung a little.

“Y’all know she way older than him, too, right?” Stack exaggerated as he plopped onto a barstool, elbows resting on the counter, grinning like he had front-row seats to a scandal.

“You blowin’ it,” Sammie muttered, flushed, waving his hands dismissively.

“Oh my goodness, how scandalous, Sammie. What’s your father gonna say?” Marry chimed in, leaning over to pluck a stray bill from the counter, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“I’m—Y’all—” Sammie sputtered, words catching in his throat. He turned toward Annie, desperate. “Give me something to do, please. Preferably something… away from y’all.”

Smoke, still smirking but carrying the weight of authority, held up a trash bag. “You can take this outside,”

“Put this on the side of the building. No need to go far.”

 Sammie grabbed it, thankful for the escape

…

Stepping out into the cool night air, Sammie felt it wrap around him like a cloak. The only light came from the Juke, thin streams slipping through the cracks of the boards and panels, casting long, jagged shadows across the dirt. Beyond the building, a lake stretched like a black hole, its surface hidden beneath the clouded moon. Trees pressed close on either side, and the faint hum of distant civilization—miles away—vanished into the night. Only crickets chirps could be heard…

Sammie wanted this to be quick.

He moved fast, feet crunching over sand and dirt, trash bag tucked against his hip. By the side of the building, he dropped it onto the ground with a soft thump, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the heavy darkness. Then-

snap.

His head shot up.

Nothing.

Snap—again.

A deer? He squinted into the shadows, heart hammering.

“Hello?” His voice sounded too loud, too exposed.

…

Then, there.

Red glinting in the dark, a silhouette barely more than a shadow until the clouds shifted, catching the faint glint of a pale face. Remmick.

Sammie staggered backward, mouth dry. “What… what you doin’ here?” His hand went to clutch his shirt, pulling it tight across his chest. “The Juke… it closed. You… you forget somethin’?”

“Nah nah, I just like stayin’ out late,” Remmick said, moving forward, each step deliberate, calm. The way he walked made Sammie’s stomach twist.

Sammie’s feet scraped dirt as he inched back. “Listen, Remmick… I don’t know how the twins would feel about you hangin’ around out here this late.” Sweat trickled down his temple, soaking into his hair.

“That’s fine,” Remmick replied smoothly, stopping a few feet from him. “I ain’t here for them.”

Sammie’s chest heaved. Behind him, the river whispered against the shore, silver flashes in the moonless dark. His back facing the lake now, nowhere to go but the open shadow of the woods.

“You… Remmick—”

“You know I didn’t get to talk to you proper earlier,” Remmick said, voice low, magnetic, crawling into Sammie’s skin.

“Been lookin’ for someone like you… for a while.”

Sammie froze. That red glint—now sharper, more prominent—cut through the darkness. The moonlight revealed it: eyes brighter than blood, pupils like coals. His stomach dropped.

He had to go.

“SMOKE!”

His voice cracked like a whip. Panic surged. He jerked sideways, not toward the lake at his back and not toward Remmick standing before the juke’s entrance, but into the tree line at his flank. Branches clawed at him, twigs snapped underfoot, leaves smacking his face. Grass and weeds tangled at his legs, slowing him, but not enough. His chest heaved; the world pressed in, tight and suffocating.

“I… I can’t…”

“You know, Sammie, I meant it,” Remmick’s voice floated through the night, southern drawl gone, replaced with something foreign, low, smooth, almost a whisper. “You’re… special.”

Sammie twisted and stumbled over a root, crashing hard into the undergrowth. Behind him, the Juke was no longer close—just a far-off flicker of lamplight swallowed by trees, a ghost of warmth already fading.

“I… I didn’t think I’d ever find someone like you while I still walked this Earth,” Remmick said, coming closer, the voice soft but every word sharp, cutting through the night like a knife. “Yet here you are. I heard your call, I heard your song…”

Sammie forced himself upright, heart hammering, and turned fully. The man he’d seen—the pale, unsettling figure—was gone. In his place: a creature. Eyes burning crimson, teeth jagged, claws catching what little light the woods allowed.

“SMOKE! STACK! SOMEONE!” His voice shattered the quiet, raw panic spilling into the night.

“Shh,” Remmick said, lifting a claw to his lips, mouthing the motion like a predator calming prey.

Sammie’s feet skidded back, trying to put space between them, but the forest seemed to close around him.

“Don’t need to be calling out to no one,” Remmick murmured, moving closer, almost tenderly, the air thick with menace. His breath smelled faintly sweet, like iron and something else Sammie couldn’t name.

Every instinct screamed. Fight. Run. Anything. But the pull—the magnetic, unnerving pull of Remmick’s gaze—rooted him in place. The cool night air had become suffocating. The distant lake, the dark woods, the empty silence… nothing could hide him now.

Walking over, Remmick bent down, gripping Sammie’s arms and hauling him to his feet. He held him tight, almost uncomfortably so, chest pressing against Sammie’s, fingers digging into his shoulders like he wasn’t letting go.

Sammie’s lungs burned, chest heaving, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the darkness beyond Remmick’s grip. The vampire’s hands were ice against his skin, cold as death itself, unyielding as he pressed Sammie closer.

“You don’t see it, do you?” Remmick’s voice was low, deliberate, brushing against Sammie’s ear. “You think you’re just playing, just strumming, just singing. But you’re not. Not to me.”

Branches cracked behind them. Sammie recognized the frantic footsteps—Smoke and Stack, calling his name through the woods. His own voice caught in his throat. He wanted to shout, to tell them where he was, but the words froze. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think beyond the sharp pressure of Remmick’s arms and the intensity in his gaze.

“Every note drags me closer,” Remmick continued, each word a caress and a threat. “Pulls something from me I’ve been hunting my whole life. I’ve crossed oceans, centuries… watched people, listened, hunted for voices that could matter—and you, you burn brighter than all of them.”

Sammie shivered, the cold seeping into his bones, deeper than the night around them. His fingers clawed at the monsters back, wet leaves and mud stuck on his palms, but it was useless. The warmth of life he thought he carried felt like it was being leeched away, absorbed by the thing holding him.

“I want it all,” Remmick whispered, dragging Sammie’s gaze into his. “Your songs, your stories, the way you bend the world when you sing. And I will have it. I’ll hear every word, every breath, every hidden note you’ve never sung.”

Regret gnawed at Sammie’s gut. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone outside. Maybe he should have stayed behind the juke, safe with the others. Maybe he shouldn't have gone in the first place. But curiosity and pride had led him here, and now the night had him in its grip, heart hammering against ice-cold ribs.

“We are earth and beast and God. We are woman and man,” Remmick’s words pressed against him like a vice, “We are connected, you and I… to everything.”

Sammie’s ears caught the desperate calls again—Smoke, Stack, somewhere close. His chest ached to answer, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe beyond the relentless pressure of Remmick. The cold sank into him, sharper, deeper, and he realized the truth: he was utterly, terrifyingly powerless.

And still, he could not look away.

Gunshots cracked through the night, distant, too late. The world had become chaotic and slow at once—sounds sharp and ragged, edges of vision blurred, darkness pressing in from all sides.

Remmick’s teeth grazed the side of Sammie’s neck, sending a jolt of ice through his veins. Warm blood welled uncontrolled, slick and heavy, as Sammie’s head tilted back, weightless in the vampire’s grip. The touch was deathly, yet disturbingly intimate. He should have felt relief when he caught faint glimpses of the twins moving through the woods—but the teeth, the claws, the relentless red in Remmick’s eyes left no space for comfort.

And then the grip lifted. Remmick stepped back, moving through the trees like shadow incarnate. His eyes glinted bright red, impossibly sharp, and for a heartbeat, Sammie thought he could see him laughing—or savoring the chase.

The sounds of the twins shouting, feet pounding over roots and leaves, barely registered. Smoke and Stack were here somewhere, dragging him through the forest, but it felt as if they were moving through molasses. Sammie’s body was leaden, lungs burning, vision dimming, warmth fading into nothing.

The trees whipped past them, branches tearing at his hair, roots clawing at their legs. Yet there was a strange, fleeting warmth—the press of Smoke’s chest, Stack’s steady rhythm beside him, grounding him even as the darkness swallowed everything else.

His breath came in ragged gasps, each exhale metallic with iron and fear. The night pressed close, cold and suffocating, but the faintest pulse of something else stirred beneath his skin—a presence he didn’t yet understand.

And then, as the juke’s golden glow pierced the tree line, a creeping sense of doom clawed at his chest. This wasn’t release. This wasn’t death. His blood screamed beneath his skin, alive and feral. He felt the pull, the brush of something ancient and dangerous, promising he wouldn’t cross over—not yet, not in the way he feared.

Sammie’s eyes fluttered open, catching the warm light, the orange glow bleeding through the branches. Fear, disbelief, and something forbidden curled in his chest. He wanted to call out, to scream—but his voice was stolen, swallowed by cold, sharp reality pressing through every vein, every nerve.

He realized then, in that sliver of dark, that the world he knew was ending—and something else, something far older and hungrier, was beginning.

…

“Oh my God! Oh my God!”

The warm glow of the juke contrasted sharply with the horrors unfolding inside.

Marry’s hands clenched, almost shielding her face, as she stumbled backward, pacing in disbelief. “Oh my God! What the hell—what happened?!”

“Please, shut the hell up!” Stack barked, trying to maintain control even as the same panic gripped him.

“Boy, don’t you go on me! Listen—please, open your eyes!” Smoke’s voice cut through, urgent, cracking, desperate.

Smoke and Annie knelt over the boy, circling him like guardian angels. The dance floor, once alive with music and movement, now felt hollow, almost sacred in its stillness. Sammie’s body lay slack, pulse faint.

“Goddamnit, please!” Annie pleaded, pressing a cloth to his neck, but the effort felt futile. A third of his neck had been ripped open, flesh and muscle torn raw—too deep, too far from any help.

It was pointless. They all knew it.

The boy was gone.

He lay there, his yellow vest stained crimson, white button-up wrinkled and soaked in blood and dirt. Once so warm, so full of life, now corrupted by death. The room felt colder, the air heavier, as the weight of what had just happened pressed down on them all.

Everyone stilled, frozen for what felt like hours. Sammie’s head lay limp in Smoke’s arms, the warmth gone, his body heavy with the finality of death. Smoke couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe properly—the boy he once saw in diapers, the one who had laughed too loudly, who had chased the sun before anyone else woke, was gone. Barely a man, just beginning to taste life’s edges, torn and broken in ways Smoke couldn’t even process. The blood, dark and slick, soaked his yellow vest, the bright juke lights casting harsh, unforgiving illumination across his face and the gory scene. Every heartbeat of the room seemed to echo in the sudden, unbearable silence, as if the world itself held its breath and mourned with him.

What happened? What the hell happened?

Stack moved slowly, his shoes thudding against the worn floorboards as he loomed over Smoke and Annie, who were cradling Sammie’s limp form.

Annie lifted her face gently, tears streaking her cheeks but her hands steady. “What… who took him?” she asked softly.

“That thing… it wasn’t human,” Stack said, his voice low, numb.

“That damn white man… that thing. I don’t even know what the hell that was,” he added, voice cracking under the weight of disbelief.

“Not human?” Marry squeaked, her hands flying to her mouth.

Smoke finally spoke, quiet, choked: “We shot him… over four times. Not even a flinch. Walked it off like it was rocks bein’ thrown.”

Stack’s fists clenched. “That man had his teeth in Sammie’s damn neck!” he yelled, storming a few steps away and kicking a loose beam in frustration.

“Oh God… oh God!” Marry’s panic rose, her voice trembling through the room.

Annie held her ground, hands firm on Sammie’s shoulders. “We gotta move him. He can’t stay here.”

Smoke’s gaze lifted from Sammie, breaking his trance as he stared at her. “The fuck you say?”

“Please, listen,” Annie pressed, clutching his hands tightly between hers. “Y’all shot him, and he… he kept moving like nothing happened. There’s a haint we’re dealing with—or worse. We need to get him out, now.”

Smoke’s face remained unreadable, numb, unblinking.

“Dead body? You know this kid, woman. This ain’t no dead body. This ain’t the time for your witchy shit,” Stack growled, frustration bubbling over.

“Stack,” Annie cut him off, lifting a hand in a clear “not now” gesture, her voice steady despite the fear in the room.

“He not goin’ outside.” Smoke said, voice steady

A heavy silence fell over them, thick and suffocating, as if the walls themselves had been holding their breath. Annie’s eyes flickered toward a small room off to the side, its door heavy and sturdy, the kind that locked from the outside. The group’s gaze followed hers, taking in the room’s sparse furnishings—a shelf pushed into the corner, a single lamp with no bulb, the faint smell of dust and old wood lingering in the air. The chaos of the night—the music, the laughter, the glow of the juke—felt like a distant memory, swallowed whole by the shadow of what had just happened. Sammie had once danced and sang under these lights, the center of their world, and now he was barely a body they could cradle, a boy ripped into something new and unrecognizable. The reality pressed down hard: the night that had begun with music and celebration had ended in blood, fear, and a desperate need to contain what they could no longer understand. Their eyes lingered on the room, knowing it would be the only place he could rest for now

…

…

…

Sammie lay in the dim room, locked inside from the outside.

Smoke sat at an empty table, hands trembling slightly as he pressed them together, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the floor. Stack sat on the floor beside him, legs splayed out, staring at the wood planks.

No one had gone home; Annie forbade anyone leaving until the sun peeked over the horizon.

“What we gon’ say to Aunt and Unc?” Stack whispered, voice low.

Annie’s eyes flickered toward him, sharp and steady. “Just wait. Ain’t nothing good to say right now.”

Stack rubbed his forehead, muttering, “Hell of a night… all of it.”

Marry paced slowly near the doorway, her hands twisting nervously. “Never seen anything like that. Not in my life.”

Stack glanced at Smoke, then looked away, biting his lip. Words bundled up, trapped in his throat, locked.

Smoke remained silent, hands pressed together, still as stone.

Annie shook her head slightly, voice soft but firm. “We watch the door. We stay here. That’s all we do.”

Minutes crawled by. The old clock above the bar ticked steadily, marking each second. Stack tapped his fingers nervously on the floorboards, Marry hummed a low, anxious tune, and Annie occasionally shifted, scanning the dim room. Outside, the first faint gold of sunrise seeped through the gaps in the walls, brushing the floors with pale light.

“Think… think we done?” Stack asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Marry stopped pacing, sitting with Stack. “Sun’s up. We can breathe now.”

Annie exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging. “Daylight don’t fix what walked in here last night

A quiet settled over the room. Even the old floorboards seemed to sigh with them. The distant hum of the Juke, the faint rustle of leaves outside, the morning birds—everything felt slightly softer, safer.

Then—

Knock.

Three sharp raps at the door that held Sammie’s body, still locked from the outside.

All heads snapped toward it. The air stiffened, the small relief vanishing like smoke. Stack’s hand twitched toward the doorframe. Marry’s lips parted, a stifled gasp caught in her throat.

Silence fell again. The knock echoed faintly, too deliberate to ignore, too loud to dismiss.

Annie’s eyes narrowed, moving toward the door with controlled caution. Her voice, low and firm, cut through the tension: “No one touch it. Not yet.”

Smoke remained frozen, hands gripping the edge of the table, jaw tight, eyes wide with unease. For the first time since the night began, he looked truly vulnerable, unsure.

The room held its breath, the morning light doing little to cut through the tension that now filled every corner.

“Hello? Uh… y’all put me in here?”

The voice was soft, almost careful, as if he didn’t want to startle them.

Annie froze, her eyes flickering toward the door. When she spoke, her tone was steady, warmer than she felt. “Samuel,” she said, slow and deliberate. “Samuel, we need you to stay right there.”

Silence stretched, heavy as stone. The air felt tighter with each second.

Smoke’s chest rose and fell uneven, courage scraping against caution as he pushed himself up. His shoes scuffed the floorboards as he stepped toward the door.

He opened his mouth—

“Smoke.”

The name froze him where he stood. Sammie’s voice was steady, almost tender, but it carried a weight that rooted Smoke to the floor.

“Smoke, you gon’ let me out?”

Smoke swallowed, lips parting before he could stop himself. “Well… boy. You lost a lotta blood last night…”

On the other side, Sammie let out a small, almost sheepish chuckle, quick and light, as though to ease the room. “Uh yeah—well, I’m sorry. I ain’t mean to worry y’all. I… I think I’m fine now.” His tone was quiet, respectful, more like an assurance than a demand. “You don’t gotta keep me locked here no mo’. I promise.”

The words floated gentle through the wood, not forceful—if anything, too polite for what he’d gone through. And maybe that’s what made it worse.