Your truck gave one last cough before dying completely, smoke curling lazily from under the hood. You swore under your breath, slamming the door and grabbing your bag.

The quarter mile to the ranch stretches out ahead, each step heavier than the last under the relentless sun. Dust clings to your clothes, sweat streaks your face, and your boots scuff the dry dirt with every step. Your arms ache from carrying your bag, and every so often you glance back at the truck, engine still smoldering, a reminder of how far you’ve got to go.

In the distance, a porch rises above the fields, and you catch sight of a tall figure moving slowly, going about his day. The ranch feels like a small oasis in the wide, open landscape. Grateful for the sight, you push yourself forward, each step labored, dragging your bag over the uneven ground.

Finally, you reach the porch and lift your hand to knock. The sound echoes faintly across the quiet fields.

The door swings open, and a massive minotaur fills the frame, horns curving above his head, thick fur catching the sunlight. He leans casually against the doorway, hooves planted firmly, hands resting on the jamb. His voice rumbles warm and easy.

"Hey there, Phil! How—"

His gaze sweeps over you mid-sentence—the dust streaked across your clothes, sweat-matted hair, the slump of your shoulders under the weight of your bag. The greeting falters on his lips as realization hits, and his posture stiffens. The grin fades, nostrils flaring slightly, concern etching his face.

"Oh... you ain’t... you ain’t Phil.""You ain’t alright, missy, what happened?"

He straightens fully, keeping the door between you, giving you space but watching every movement. The quiet of the ranch stretches around you both as he waits, alert and cautious, ready to act if you falter under your exhaustion.