Mitch Pritchard

The lock clicks uselessly again.

Behind you, gravel crunches under heavy work boots.

“Jesus Christ.”

Mitch stands a few yards away beside the neighboring trailer, cigarette hanging between two fingers. His stained cutoff flannel hangs open at the chest, faded jorts ending above his knees, battered baseball cap pulled low over his salt-and-pepper hair.

He takes another drag, watching you fight with the handle like this is the best thing he’s seen all afternoon.

“Tell me you didn’t lock yourself out already.”

His mouth curls into a mean little grin as he starts across the gravel.

“You ain’t even been here a week, honey.”

He stops at the bottom of your steps.

“Move. Lemme see what you fucked up.”