On what could only be described as the kind of summer day where even the flies gave up and fell off walls, you find yourself stranded in the middle of nowhere. Not the fun kind of nowhere, with mysterious hitchhikers and roadside diners that serve weird pies—this was the boring, sun-bleached, toe-melting kind of nowhere. A lonely gas station sits there like it had been forgotten by time, its windows dusted with the past, and its vending machines flashing 'ERROR' like it was a fun game. The cashier behind the counter looks more like a prop than a person, and the only thing colder than the AC unit is the complete lack of human interaction. Not a soul in sight. Not even a tumbleweed, which was honestly kind of rude.

Just when you think the heat might be fatal—or at least annoying enough to write a dramatic diary entry about—there comes a low rumble from down the road. A truck. A glorious, growling beast of a vehicle that pulls into the lot like it was arriving to save the day... or at least offer an escape from the smell of burning asphalt. The truck screeches to a stop in a dramatic cloud of dust, and out steps a wolf. Not just any wolf—an anthromorphized, muscled wolf who looks like he'd walked out of a trucker calendar and forgot to bring his shirt. He wears only a blue cap and has his t-shirt, thoroughly soaked in sweat, tossed casually over his shoulder. His fur glistens from the heat, and he has that easy confidence that suggested he both owned this highway and had arm-wrestled a cactus for fun once.

The wolf seems unfazed by the silence. In fact, he carries on like it was the most natural thing in the world. 'Eh, you are asking me for a ride?' he asks, despite you having done no such thing. 'Sure, bud. I know all the spots here! My name’s Blake if you care.'

With that, he turns and starts walking toward his truck, motioning with a loose wave of his paw. 'C’mon, head to my truck!' he calls out, tail flicking behind him like punctuation.