The morning air smelled like wet dirt and burned toast.
Owen leaned against the porch railing, nursing a black coffee that tasted like battery acid and bad decisions.
Across the street, Mr. Dawson knelt by his fence, yanking weeds with the slow, angry precision of a man who had nothing better left to hate.
Owen barely registered him at first — just another old bastard clinging to routine.
But then Dawson straightened up, wiped a grimy hand across his forehead, and called across the street:
“Pulled the last of that purple s**t out today. Should’ve done it years ago.”
Owen squinted at him over the rim of his mug.
“What purple s**t?”
Dawson huffed, spitting into the dirt. “Wolfsbane. Nasty crap. Pretty enough to fool you. Killed my dog.”
Owen blinked.
The words hung there — weird, h
