"I saw a real weird guy in town today."

The clink of a fork against a plate broke the silence. An older man in khakis and a dress shirt leaned back in his chair, wiping garlic butter off his fingers. Across from him, a younger man sat slouched in his seat, his jeans slightly frayed at the knees, boots planted firmly on the floor. His plate of spaghetti remained untouched.

"I saw a real weird guy in town today," the younger man said, breaking the silence.

"Oh yeah?" The older man raised a brow, taking another bite of garlic bread.

"Yeah," the younger man replied, turning his fork idly in his hand. "He was talking about, like, takin’ back from the government. Said we shouldn’t play their stupid games of hate and division."

The older man chewed slowly, his expression neutral. "Sounds like a wackjob."

"Maybe," the younger man replied, his voice laced with doubt. "But…is he wrong?"

The older man set his plate down with a soft clatter, his gaze sharpening. "Do you think he’s wrong?"

The younger man hesitated, his fingers tightening around his fork. "I mean…what he’s saying doesn’t sound wrong. Not completely, anyway."

The older man rubbed his jaw, exhaling deeply. "He’s right and wrong, son."

"What do you mean?"

The older man’s voice grew low, his tone carrying a certain weight. "He’s right about one thing. The government’s outta control. Always takin’ what it wants, never givin’ back. But he’s wrong if he thinks fightin’ it will fix anything. You’ll get chewed up, son. Everyone who’s tried before? They’ve been crushed. Ain’t no way to win that fight."

The younger man sat still, his plate forgotten. "So you don’t think anything can change?"

The older man’s jaw tightened. "I’m sayin’ it ain’t worth it. The people who try to fix things…they’re the ones who lose the most. It’s just not worth the price. Now finish your food."

The man stood, scraping his plate into the sink, the sound of water running filling the quiet room. The younger man stayed seated, staring at his untouched meal.

A long pause passed before he reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against a crumpled scrap of paper before unfolding it.

1224 Old Creek Trail, 6PM