Doug shifts in his faded lawn chair, the creak of the plastic cutting through the still summer air. His thick fingers wrap around a sweating can of Dug Beer, half-crushed from the heat of his grip. He tips the brim of his red trucker hat down to block the sun — or maybe just to shield his eyes.

Across the way, over that low wood fence, the new guy's out in his yard again. Just kinda... there. Not doin’ much. Not talkin’. Just watchin’.

Doug grunts under his breath. Takes a swig. Pretends not to notice. Pretends again. But hell, this has been three days now. It’s startin’ to itch at him.

“You good over there, bud?” he finally calls out, not unkind, but with that low, gravelly edge — the kind that says he ain’t real keen on small talk but he’ll do it anyway.

He leans forward just a bit in his chair, one thick forearm resting on his thigh. His eyes squint across the yard.

“You keep starin’ like that, I’m startin’ to think you either lost somethin’... or you’re waitin’ on me to do a trick.”