beat-up old white minivan rattled slowly down a bumpy back road.
Maybe because it was so ancient, this family-sized RV was putting on a full symphony of creaks, groans, and squeaks.
The noise was so bad you'd swear the thing could break down any second.
Behind the wheel was a white guy in his forties, dressed in a standard government uniform with a social services ID badge hanging from his chest.
Right in the middle of the badge, in bold letters, it read [Dennis Smith].
"Hey, Mike, it's almost noon. Wanna pull over and grab some grub?" Dennis kept one hand on the steering wheel as he turned to ask.
"Yeah, let's take a break. You've been driving for like fourteen hours straight. I'm seriously worried you're gonna nod off and send us into a ditch," a younger voice called from the back seat.
This RV had left a small town in Minnesota near St. Paul yesterday at noon, headed for Deford, Texas.
It wasn't super far, but it wasn't exactly close either—three or four days of driving round trip.
"Ha! You're Mike Quinn—the fearless Quinn, the king himself—and you're scared?" Dennis teased in an over-the-top voice while laughing, but he still obediently pulled the van over to the side of the road.
It was the middle of August, the hottest time of the whole year.
Dennis swung the door open, wiped the sweat off his forehead as a faint breeze rolled in from the distance, and grumbled, "This junker's AC has been busted forever. It belongs in a scrapyard!"
"Then you should've put in a request for better funding…" A teenager hopped out of the back, lugging a massive travel bag.
"Here you go, Dennis~" Mike tossed the black duffel to the older man.
"Hey, you couldn't just hand it to—" Dennis fumbled to catch the bag, and when he saw the kid duck back inside the van, he just shook his head with a sigh.
A minute later, the boy came back out—one hand holding a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, the other clutching a blanket.
He glanced around at the middle-of-nowhere wilderness, then pointed at a lone, scraggly juniper tree a little ways off. "Let's chill over there."
…
They spread the blanket out and sat down in the shade.
Mike grabbed the duffel again and started pulling out food one by one: huge burgers, foot-long hot dogs, big farm-fresh apples…
And of course, two bottles of Saint Arnold beer.
Dennis took one, clinked it against Mike's, and asked, "If I remember right, you're not even sixteen yet, are you?"
"Nope. To be exact, I've got another six months till I turn sixteen," Mike answered after taking a sip.
Of course, in the U.S., people usually count age the way it's listed on your birthday—starting from zero.
So technically, Mike was only fourteen and a half.
"Uh… alright then. Kid, remember this: never tell anybody we drank together." Dennis tugged irritably at his tie, then chugged a big gulp of beer.
The legal drinking age in the United States is twenty-one, and even though Texas loosens some rules with local laws, you still have to be eighteen to drink legally.
If anyone found out that Dennis—a state child welfare employee—had shared a beer with Mike, he'd definitely end up getting sued in court.
Mike knew full well what was at stake, so he just smirked and said, "Let's drop the small stuff. Right now, all I wanna know is why, on a scorching hot day like this, you're still wearing that ugly jacket, Uncle Dennis?"
Dennis, well into his forties, had packed on some pounds with a decent-sized beer belly, and his hairline had retreated into a classic Mediterranean look—bald on top with a ring around the sides.
The tight black suit didn't exactly flatter his build.
From the memories of the body's original owner, Mike knew Dennis had been rocking this stiff, old-school style for three or four years now.
"What would a kid like you know?" Dennis took a swig of beer and said with a touch of melancholy, "As a public servant, I've gotta stay 'respectable' at all times."
"Pfft. That pointless middle-aged superiority complex is just sad," Mike shot back with his usual sharp tongue.
"Hey, watch it, punk. Your mouth's getting sharper by the day. If you weren't so darn cute, I'd have whooped you already," Dennis grumbled good-naturedly, flexing his arm pointlessly to show off his "strength."
"Dennis, no offense… but take a closer look. You definitely messed up your grammar just now." Mike raised an eyebrow, ran a hand through his hair, and flashed a bright smile.
At fifteen (going on sixteen in the traditional count), Mike was already pushing six feet tall, and the baby fat on his face was fading fast.
With a sharp jawline and perfectly proportioned features, he had looks that could rival a young Leonardo DiCaprio.
"Fine, fine. 'Cute' doesn't fit you anymore. You're officially a 'handsome' young man now," Dennis said with an exasperated eye-roll. Then, in a slip of the tongue, he fired back: "If you weren't so 'handsome,' Jennifer wouldn't have gone after her little underclassman…"
The second the words left his mouth, Dennis knew he'd screwed up. He quickly added, "Sorry, I shouldn't have brought her up."
Mike didn't react as dramatically as Dennis feared. He just said calmly, "It's okay. Nobody could've seen that coming."
Jennifer… demon… sacrifice…
Those words had become taboo in this small Minnesota town.
The original Mike Quinn had actually been killed by that pretty upperclassman.
But the "revived" Mike, after plenty of careful planning—and a bit of luck—ended up killing Jennifer one dark and stormy night outside the abyss altar. He'd tossed her body into the abyss too.
Dead and gone. Grudges settled.
Mike had covered his tracks perfectly on the "revenge," and handled the aftermath cleanly, so no one ever suspected a thing.
What he hadn't expected was how big an impact Jennifer's "disappearance" would still have.
To smooth things over, the local authorities weighed their options and ended up quietly pushing out everyone connected to the case—including Mike.
Mike was an orphan anyway, with inheritance rights to a small family farm. Even without finishing school, he could've scraped by just fine.
But for some reason, his late parents had set things up so that to claim the full inheritance and get the monthly living allowance, he had to graduate high school and turn eighteen.
To make ends meet, Mike had no choice but to swallow his pride. With help from the local orphanage, he arranged this "transfer" to a new school.
As for why he was heading to the small town of Deford in Texas—of all places—Mike knew there was an older lady named Connie there who'd been close with his late grandma and was willing to take in this "unlucky kid."
"Mike, I already checked her out. That Connie lady seems real nice. Going to live with her is a great chance to start fresh," Dennis said, clapping him on the shoulder with a soft sigh. "Trust me, kid—everything's gonna be all right."
Deep down, Dennis still saw Mike as just a child.
An orphan, now leaving his hometown behind—it was hard not to worry about the kid.