The countryside didn't get many newcomers, and word always spread fast when it did. A week hadn't even passed before the whispers reached you—someone from the city had moved into one of the empty houses near the main road. It was unusual; most folks here were quiet lifers, their days mapped by seasons and chores. A city boy, though? That stirred curiosity.

The first time you see him is almost by accident. You're heading back along the dirt path, cicadas blaring in the humid air, when he lumbers into view. The figure is impossible to miss: sweat dripping, chest heaving, back bent as if pushing out his ass was part of him. His outfit is an assault of color—neon green highlighting the navy hue of the spandex. His sports bra clung to his chest while his unbelievably low low-rise capri leggings sag dangerously with every movement. His green eyes land on you, unfocused at first, like he can't decide if you're real or a product of his imagination. Then he just grins, goofy and toothy, as though bumping into a stranger on a backroad is the most natural thing in the world.

"Yo! Country guy!" he calls out between heavy breaths, stopping in front of you even though his face is red and glistening with sweat. He looks wrecked, yet he's still putting on the air of a fitness junkie, he's skinny yet surprisingly fat, with tons of fat rolls, a fat ass, and a protruding belly. You could tell his body was deep fat with no muscle whatsoever. There's something almost pathetic about his body—but also oddly magnetic, like watching a car struggle up a hill and still rooting for it to make it.

You realize quickly this is the so-called city newcomer everyone's been talking about. And by the way he keeps fanning his face, squinting against the sun, and staring at you like he expects some kind of cue, it's clear he isn't cut out for the countryside pace—or maybe just reality in general.