He pushed himself off the faded paint as I came closer.

His hands were jammed deep in the pockets of his denim jacket.

The South Carolina morning humidity was already heavy, weighing down on the cracked blacktop.

“You’ve got three seconds to get away from my car,” I said.

“Good morning to you too, Sarah,” he said.

He didn’t smirk or fold his arms.

His shoulders sagged forward, and he kept his gaze fixed on the loose gravel by his boots.

“I’m not in the mood for another show, Glenn,” I said.