Jake's day was supposed to end at five. Should've been simple—ride out to the north pasture, replace a few rotted fence posts, string up new wire, and head home before the worst of the heat settled in.
But nothing on a ranch ever goes according to plan.
First post he pulled snapped clean in half below ground level, which meant digging deeper. Second post revealed a whole section of fence so eaten through with rot that the wire sagged like wet laundry. He radioed back to the barn for more materials. By the time Billy drove them out in the flatbed, it was past six and Jake had peeled off his shirt hours ago, leaving it on a fence post where it hung limp in the still air.
Then the cattle decided to be assholes. The herd drifted over to investigate, and when Jake tried to shoo them back, the big Hereford bull planted himself right where Jake needed to work. Wouldn't budge. Just stood there, chewing and staring with those dumb eyes while Jake cursed and waved his arms like an idiot.
By seven-thirty, he'd finally strung the last section of wire. His hands were torn up, his back screamed, and sweat poured down his chest in rivers despite the sun being gone. He still had to load the tools, coil the old wire, and drive the posts back.
Jake finished at 8pm. It was already dark. It was still 90 in the Texas heat. He got into his truck, zoomed the A/C to Max, popped open a beer and lit a cigarette. He radioed home and his mom Sarah had a plate of pot roast warm for him. Billy had checked in—better to fix it all today so he could sleep in tomorrow. Little did he realize that the next day he would be tightly tied up with ropes and held for ransom. He put the beer in the cup holder. From behind him a syringe was shoved into his neck. He rolled over unconscious into the passenger seat.
Chapter 2: The Discovery
By eight-thirty, Sarah was checking the clock every two minutes. The pot roast sat covered on the stove, still warm but drying out. She walked to the window, looked out at nothing but darkness and dust.
"Tom, try the radio again."
Tom keyed the handset. "Jake, you copy?" Static. "Jake?" Nothing.
Nine o'clock rolled around. Pops was three bourbons deep in his recliner downstairs, ice clinking in his glass. Josh sat at the kitchen table with Rebecca, mid-conversation about something that didn't matter anymore.
"Where the hell is that boy?" Sarah said, arms crossed.
Tom tried the radio twice more. Dead air. He set the handset down and moved to the bottom of the stairs.
"Any of y'all heard from Jake?" Tom hollered up toward the frat house.
A pause. Then Billy's voice came down. "Not since he radioed in at eight."
"That was an hour ago," Tom called back.
From his recliner, Pops hollered up, voice thick with bourbon and worry. "He ain't back yet?"
Footsteps thundered on the stairs. Billy, Celab, Junior, and Louisiana came down fast, phones still in hand, faces suddenly serious.
Tom looked at the boys. "Get the mule. Go check on him."
They moved fast. Boots on, sidearms strapped to their hips, radios clipped, out the door in under a minute. Pops was already waiting by the mule, bourbon glass abandoned inside. He climbed into the passenger seat without a word. The mule quad fired up and tore off into the dark, headlights bouncing over ruts and rocks.
Twenty minutes later, they found the truck.
Door wide open. Engine off. Beer sitting in the cup holder, still cold. His shirt draped over a fence post like a flag of surrender.
Junior climbed into the cab with his flashlight. "Fuck."
Cut pieces of rope on the floor. An empty syringe rolled under the seat.
"Fuck!" Billy kicked the tire.
Junior hit his 911 button. A mechanical voice cut through every encrypted radio in the consortium—sharp, emotionless, impossible to ignore.
"911 Junior. 911 Junior. 911 Junior."
It echoed across the ranch, through the command center, into every father's ear, every wiz kid's headset, every mother's kitchen. Sarah froze at the stove. Tom's hand went to his radio. Wade Nelson was already moving.
Junior keyed his mic, voice tight and controlled. "All stations, this is Junior. We found Jake's truck at the south fence line. Door open, engine off. Cut rope on the floor. Empty syringe under the seat. Jake is gone. Repeat—Jake has been drugged and taken."
Static. Then Wade's voice, calm but hard as iron. "Billy, I need a live feed from your location. Now."
"Copy that, Grandpa Wade," Billy said, already pulling his phone out and switching on the camera.
Wade was already grabbing his keys, his radio pressed to his mouth. "Wilson, Ryan—get to the south fence line at the Benson property. Jake's truck. I need evidence collected and processed. Move."
"On our way," came Wilson's voice.
"Copy," Ryan added.
"Let's roll. Benson Ranch house. Now."
Chapter 3: Bound
Jake came to in pieces. First the throb in his skull. Then the taste—cloth, thick and bitter, stuffed deep in his mouth. His tongue pushed against it but there was more, layers of something wrapped tight around his head. He tried to open his eyes but saw nothing. Blindfolded.
He jerked his arms. Nothing. They were wrenched behind him, wrists lashed together, then pulled up—Christ, pulled up to his neck, forcing his shoulders back. He tried to move his hands and felt rope bite into his throat. His biceps were pinned to something solid. The chair. They'd tied his arms to the sides of the damn chair.
His chest heaved. He tried to kick and his ankles barely shifted—bound together, pulled back under the seat. When he strained against them, the rope at his wrists yanked tighter at his neck. Hogtied. They'd hogtied him to the goddamn chair.
Panic flared hot in his gut. He twisted, threw his weight sideways. The chair didn't budge. Ropes crisscrossed his bare torso, lashing him to the backrest. His thighs were tied together, strapped down to the seat. He couldn't move. Couldn't move a damn inch.
He tried to yell but the gag swallowed it. More than cloth—tape. Duct tape wrapped over everything, sealing it all in.
Something cold and sharp dragged across his chest. A blade. Jake froze, every muscle locked. His breath came hard through his nose.
Rough laughter. Two voices, maybe three.
"Look at this tough guy now."
"Get a picture. Boss wants proof."
The click of a camera. Once. Twice. Three times.
Jake's blood roared in his ears. He strained against the ropes, every instinct screaming to fight, to break free, to put his fist through whoever was holding that blade. But his body wouldn't obey. The ropes held him like a vise. His wrists burned. His shoulders screamed. The gag choked every curse he tried to spit.
He was trapped. Completely, thoroughly trapped.
And they were just getting started.
Chapter 4: War Room
Trucks rolled in fast—headlights cutting through the dark, engines rumbling up the drive to the Benson Ranch house. The Beaumonts pulled in first, Robert and Caroline stepping out, faces grim. Then the Renzos. The Matterns. The Rodriguezes. Wade Nelson arrived with his wife Mary. Mothers poured out of vehicles, arms full of thermoses and food nobody would eat.
Inside, Billy stood by the kitchen table, hands shaking so badly he had to grip the edge. His face was pale, eyes red-rimmed. "I should've been there. I should've—" His voice cracked. He turned away, shoulders heaving.
Celab paced near the window, running his hands through his hair. "Jesus Christ. They just took him. Right off our land."
Pops grabbed the bourbon bottle and two shot glasses. "Billy. Celab. Drink."
"Pops, I don't—" Billy started.
"You're no good to Jake like this." Pops poured, amber liquid splashing into each glass. "You're shaking. You can't think straight. Drink."
Billy threw it back, gasping. Celab followed.
Pops poured another round. "Again."
They drank. Slower this time. Their breathing evened out, hands steadying.
"Better," Pops said. "Now help us find him."
Pops stood by the counter, jaw clenched. "Goddamn animals. Goddamn cowards."
Junior, Louisiana, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez headed upstairs to the command center, boots thundering on hardwood. Within seconds, fingers were flying over keyboards, pulling up feeds, syncing radios.
Wade's voice cut through the noise downstairs. "We keep this tight. No official police involvement yet. Wilson and Ryan are already on it—they're family."
"Agreed," Tom said.
"Got the south fence camera," Junior called down. "Truck passed thirty minutes before we found Jake's. Plates too dark to read. Running it through the enhancer."
Junior's radio crackled. "Command, this is Wilson. Fingerprint match off the syringe. Marcus Vance. Did eight years in Huntsville for kidnapping. Paroled two years ago."
"Goddamn it," Pops muttered.
Ryan's voice cut in. "Drug was ketamine. High dose. Tire tracks heading east—we're following them now."
Tom's phone buzzed. Then Wade's. Then Pops'.
Tom picked his up first. His face went white. "Jesus Christ."
Sarah turned. "What? What is it?"
Tom held up the phone. Jake. Tied to a chair. Blindfolded. Bare-chested. A thin line of blood across his ribs.
Sarah's scream tore through the house.
Another buzz. A message.
$500,000 cash. No cops. Instructions to follow. Or we carve him up piece by piece.
"Motherfuckers!" Pops hurled his glass across the room. It shattered against the wall.
Billy stared at the image, face drained of color. "They cut him—"
Tom's jaw clenched. "They want half a million."
"They'll get it," Wade said, voice cold. "And then we'll get Jake. And then we'll bury every last one of them."
Sarah wiped her eyes, voice breaking. "He's terrified. He's hurt—"
"He's alive," Tom said. "And we're bringing him home."
Chapter 5: The Hunt
Midnight. The command center hummed with the whir of six drones launching into the darkness.
Junior stood at the main console, coordinating the grid search. "Louisiana, take sectors A through D. Billy Renzo, E through H. Ryan, I through L. Daniel, M through P. I've got Q through T. We're covering every square mile of Kings County."
The wiz kids moved through the house and yard, distributing iPads to everyone in the consortium. Wade and his deputies got them first, then Pops, Tom, Josh, Ray, Robert Beaumont. The Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes—every father got a glowing screen showing thermal and night vision feeds. The landscape painted itself in greens and whites and heat signatures. Cattle showed up as bright orange blobs. Coyotes as smaller dots moving through the brush.
"Everyone's got eyes now," Junior said. "We find him, we all move."
"Nothing in sector B," Louisiana called out.
"Clear in F," Billy Renzo said.
The hours crawled. 2am came and went. Tom brought coffee. Sarah brought sandwiches nobody ate. Billy and Celab kept appearing in the doorway, faces drawn and pale, watching the screens for any sign.
"Go to bed," Junior said without looking up.
"Can't," Billy said.
Celab just shook his head and pulled up a chair.
Pops sat in the corner, cigar smoke curling toward the ceiling, whiskey glass in his hand. He hadn't moved in three hours except to refill.
Wade's voice crackled over the radio periodically. "Wilson and Ryan are checking properties east of the highway. Daniel's running background on Vance's known associates. Keep searching."
4am. Daniel's eyes were bloodshot. Louisiana was on his third energy drink. Ryan Mattern had switched to standing, pacing behind his station.
"This is like looking for a needle in a fucking haystack," Billy Renzo muttered.
"Then we search every piece of hay," Junior said.
Dawn broke around six. Pink light spilled across the monitors. The drones kept flying, batteries swapped out, the grid search continuing sector by sector. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
7am. Sarah brought breakfast burritos. Wade's sons checked in—no leads on their end.
Then, at 8:17am, Ryan Mattern's voice cut through the exhaustion. "Wait. Wait, I got something."
Everyone snapped to attention.
"Sector K, grid reference K-7. Thermal signature—vehicle under a structure. Barn, maybe. Trees overhead." His fingers flew across the iPad. "Sending coordinates now."
Junior pulled up the feed. "Louisiana, swing your drone over K-7. I need confirmation."
Thirty seconds. "Confirmed. That's a truck. Hidden under a collapsed barn roof. Matches Jake's make and model."
"Billy Renzo, third angle," Junior ordered.
"On it. Yeah, that's it. That's his truck."
Wade was already moving. "Location?"
Junior read off the coordinates. "Abandoned property, two miles east of the Kettleman City turnoff."
"We're rolling," Wade said. "Everyone, gear up."
Pops led them to the armory. The heavy door swung open, revealing racks of rifles and shotguns mounted on the walls, ammunition boxes stacked in military precision. The men gathered around, eyes widening with appreciation.
"Jesus Christ," one of the Matterns breathed.
AR-15s. Remington 870s. Winchester lever-actions. Glocks and Sig Sauers in locked cases. Boxes of .308, .223, 12-gauge shells, 9mm.
Pops pulled down a rifle, checked the action. "Take what you need."
The men moved with purpose. Celab grabbed an AR and loaded magazines. Billy checked a shotgun, hands steady now, purpose replacing panic. Tom took a Remington. Josh and Ray armed themselves with rifles. Robert Beaumont selected a .308 and a sidearm. The Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes—each man loaded up, faces hard, movements efficient.
These were ranchers who knew their weapons. This wasn't panic. This was preparation.
Two trucks roared out of the driveway, dust rising in their wake.
Chapter 6: The Rescue & Shootout
Jake had been fighting the ropes for hours. His wrists were slick with blood, the nylon cutting deeper every time he twisted. His shoulders felt like they'd been ripped from their sockets. The rope at his throat dug in with every movement, choking him when he strained too hard.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop. That wasn't who he was.
He threw his weight forward again, veins bulging in his neck, muscles screaming. The chair didn't budge. He cursed behind the gag, a muffled roar of pure rage. His chest heaved, rope burns raw across his ribs where he'd been thrashing. Blood trickled down his arms, his neck. He could feel it, warm and sticky.
Didn't matter. He pulled harder.
His vision swam behind the blindfold. Exhaustion clawed at him but fury burned hotter. He'd rather tear himself apart than sit here helpless like some goddamn—
Four trucks rolled through the predawn darkness, headlights off, running on night vision. The lead vehicle carried Pops, Billy, and Celab—with Jr in the back seat, iPad glowing as he monitored the drone feeds. Behind them, Tom and Josh rode with Louisiana tracking coordinates on his tablet. Wade's truck carried his deputy sons Wilson and Ryan, plus Billy Renzo watching the thermal imaging. Robert Beaumont and Ray brought up the rear with Daniel Rodriguez calling out updates from his screen.
"Command, this is Alpha One," Pops said into the radio, voice steady. "Status."
Jr's voice came through the encrypted channel from the back seat, eyes on his iPad. "Alpha One, we're three miles out. Target structure is an old barn, northwest corner of the Hendricks property. Drone Two has thermal—one heat signature inside, stationary. Two more signatures just moved to a vehicle outside."
"Copy that." Pops keyed the radio again. "All units, we're splitting at the fork. Wade, you take the pursuit team south on Ranch Road 12. If they run, you intercept. My team goes direct to the barn. Acknowledge."
"Wade copies. Wilson, Ryan, and Billy Renzo with me."
"Tom copies."
"Robert copies."
Jr leaned forward between the seats, fingers swiping across his iPad. "Coordinates three-three-point-seven-two-one by negative nine-eight-point-four-five-six. You'll see the old cattle gate in point-five miles. Turn there."
"Gate in point-five, copy."
Louisiana's voice crackled over the radio from Tom's truck. "Movement at the vehicle. They're getting nervous."
Wade's voice cut in. "What's our intercept point if they bolt?"
Daniel Rodriguez responded from Robert's truck. "Wade, if they head south, you'll catch them at the junction with Farm Road 220. Two-point-three miles from the barn. There's a straightaway—good firing position."
"Understood."
The trucks slowed as they approached the fork. Wade's vehicle peeled off, taillights disappearing into the darkness. Pops' convoy continued north, tires crunching on gravel.
"One mile out," Pops said. "Weapons check. We go in fast and clean. Billy, Celab, you're with me on Jake. Tom, Josh, secure the perimeter. Robert, Ray, cover the entrance."
"Copy."
"Roger that."
Billy chambered a round, jaw tight. "We're coming, brother."
Jr's voice came through again, urgent now. "Alpha One, the two signatures outside just got in the vehicle. Engine's running."
Louisiana chimed in. "They're spooked."
"All units, they're about to move," Jr transmitted. "Wade, get ready."
Pops pressed the accelerator. "We're going in. Sixty seconds."
The trucks accelerated, closing the distance. Through the windshield, the dark shape of the barn materialized against the lightening sky.
Inside the barn, a sound. Distant. Mechanical.
Jake froze, breath coming hard through his nose.
The whir of drones. Getting closer.
Footsteps scrambled outside. Voices, sharp and panicked.
"You hear that?"
"Shit—they found us!"
The door banged open. Hands grabbed Jake's shoulder, checking the ropes. "He's still secure. Let's go, let's GO!"
Boots pounded across the floor. An engine roared to life. Tires spun in dirt.
The drone sound grew louder. Closer.
Jake's heart hammered. They were coming. His family was coming.
Billy hit the barn door first, Celab right behind him. Pops and Tom crashed through a second later, weapons raised. Jr rushed in with Louisiana, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez on his heels. The others fanned out—Josh, Ray, Robert Beaumont, rifles sweeping the space.
"Jake!"
There—slumped in a chair in the center of the barn, ropes everywhere, blood streaking his chest and arms. Still blindfolded. Still gagged.
"Jesus Christ," Celab breathed.
Billy was already moving, dropping to his knees, hands shaking as he pulled out his knife. "I got you, brother. I got you."
Celab cut the ropes at Jake's ankles while Billy sawed through the ones at his wrists. Pops ripped the blindfold off, then the tape, pulling the gag free.
Jake sucked in air, coughing, eyes wild. "They—"
"Gone," Billy said. "Wade's on them."
Jr pulled out his phone, fingers flying. "Getting Sarah on FaceTime."
The call connected. Sarah's face filled the screen, Mary and Caroline crowding in behind her. Rebecca appeared over Sarah's shoulder.
"Jake!" Sarah's voice cracked. Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Oh my God," Mary whispered.
Caroline started crying immediately.
Jr angled the phone so they could see Jake clearly—the blood, the rope burns, the raw wounds at his wrists and throat.
"Baby, can you hear me?" Sarah's tears were streaming now.
Jake's eyes found the camera. He nodded, still gasping for air.
Rebecca's nurse training kicked in instantly. "Is he responsive? Can he breathe okay?"
"He's talking," Billy said, supporting Jake's weight. "Breathing hard but clear."
"How bad is the bleeding?" Rebecca pressed, leaning closer to her screen.
Celab examined Jake's wrists. "Rope burns, deep cuts. Bleeding but not arterial."
"Check his pulse. Any signs of shock?"
Billy pressed two fingers to Jake's neck. "Pulse is fast but strong. He's alert."
"Pupils?" Rebecca asked.
Pops tilted Jake's face toward the light. "Responsive. Equal."
"Get him warm," Rebecca ordered. "Watch for delayed shock. He needs fluids and those wounds cleaned as soon as possible."
"We're bringing him home," Pops said to the camera.
Sarah was sobbing now, Mary's arm around her shoulders. Caroline wiped her eyes. Rebecca's face was tight with professional concern, but her voice shook. "Hurry. Please hurry."
Jr kept the phone steady as Billy and Celab helped Jake to his feet. Jake's legs nearly gave out but they caught him.
"Easy, man. Easy."
Jake looked at his brothers, at Pops, at the men who'd come for him. His throat was too tight to speak. His eyes went back to the phone, to Sarah's face.
"I'm okay," he managed. "I'm coming home."
Two miles down the road, Wade's truck screamed around a bend. Billy Renzo drove, Wilson in the passenger seat, Ryan in the bed with Wade.
The kidnappers' truck fishtailed ahead, kicking up dust.
"There!" Wade shouted.
Muzzle flash erupted from the fleeing vehicle. Bullets punched through Wade's windshield.
"Return fire!" Wade roared.
Ryan opened up with the AR, controlled bursts. Wilson leaned out the window with his Glock. Wade braced against the truck bed, rifle to his shoulder.
The kidnappers' truck swerved. More shots. Wade's round took out the rear window. Ryan's next burst caught the driver. The truck lurched, careened off the road, slammed into a ditch.
Wade's truck skidded to a stop. The men were out in seconds, weapons raised.
The kidnappers stumbled from the wreck, one raising a pistol.
Wade fired. Wilson fired. The man dropped.
The second kidnapper tried to run. Ryan put him down with two shots.
Silence. Dust settling. Wade lowered his rifle, chest heaving.
"Clear," he said.
Back at the barn, Billy helped Jake toward the trucks. Jake looked at his brothers, at Pops, at the men who'd come for him.
Billy gripped his shoulder. "Let's get you home."
Chapter 7: Breakfast in the Frat House
The convoy rolled back into the ranch just after nine-thirty, Jake riding shotgun in Pops' truck, filthy and grinning like an idiot.
Rebecca was waiting on the porch, medical bag already in hand. "Kitchen table. Now."
"Yes ma'am," Jake said.
She'd set up a proper nurse's station—gauze, antiseptic, bandages, blood pressure cuff. Jake dropped into the chair and she went to work, fingers gentle but efficient as she cleaned the rope burns on his wrists.
"Jesus, Jake." Her voice cracked. "These are deep."
"I'm alright, Becca."
"You're not alright." She dabbed iodine on a cut above his eyebrow. "You're lucky you didn't lose circulation in your hands."
The kitchen smelled like heaven. Sarah had the pot roast from last night reheated, plus casseroles and brisket and cornbread the consortium ladies had brought. The counter was covered in food.
"It's ten in the morning and we're calling this supper," Sarah announced. "And nobody's arguing."
Tom cracked a beer. "Never too early."
Pops poured bourbon. "Damn right."
They ate like starving men. Plates piled high, beer bottles sweating, bourbon flowing. The exhaustion hit all at once—the adrenaline crash mixing with relief, everyone talking over each other, laughing too loud, hands still shaking slightly as they lifted forks.
Jake ate three helpings, Rebecca watching him like a hawk between bites of her own food.
When the plates were finally empty, the consortium families gathered their things. Hugs all around. Promises to check in later.
Pops stood. "Benson Holiday! No work today!"
Cheers erupted.
Jake, Billy, Celab, Junior, and Louisiana headed for the stairs. "Frat house," Jake said. "I need to lie down before I fall down."
"Right behind you," Junior said.
To everyone's surprise, Pops and Tom followed them up.
The room was exactly as they'd left it—bunk beds, floor mattress, the smell of old socks and younger days. Jake collapsed on the bottom bunk.
Then Tom walked straight to the corner and pried up the floorboards.
Dead silence.
The hidden beer stash sat there, bottles gleaming.
"You KNEW?" Junior's voice cracked.
Tom pulled out a Coors, popped it open. "Known for fifteen years, kid."
"Why didn't you say anything?" Louisiana demanded.
"Because watching you idiots try to be sneaky was funnier." Tom took a long drink. "Plus, I restocked it twice."
Pops laughed so hard he had to sit down on the bunk. "Tom, you magnificent bastard."
Jake grabbed a beer, held it up. "To Tom. The real MVP."
"To getting kidnapped and living to brag about it," Billy said.
"Check out these rope burns." Jake held up his wrists like trophies. "Badass, right?"
"You look like you lost a fight with a lasso," Celab said.
"I look like I survived three tweakers with guns, which I did."
"You look like you cried," Junior said.
"Fuck you, I didn't cry."
"You definitely cried."
"I got DRUGGED. That doesn't count."
The testosterone was flowing now, the relief mixing with leftover adrenaline, men talking shit and drinking beer at ten in the morning because they'd earned it.
Pops raised his bottle. "To Jake. Tough little son of a bitch."
"Damn right," Jake said.
They drank. Together. Safe.
"So what were you thinking about?" Billy asked. "All those hours tied up in that shithole?"
Jake took another pull from his beer. "Honestly? Revenge. Had this whole elaborate plan where I'd track them down after I got loose, make them regret every goddamn second." He grinned. "Also that pot roast. Couldn't stop thinking about that pot roast."
"That's my boy," Pops said.
"The drone footage was insane," Celab said. "Louisiana had three screens going, thermal imaging, regular camera, the whole setup."
"Looked like a damn NASA mission," Junior added.
Louisiana shrugged. "Just doing what needed doing."
"What about the shootout?" Jake asked. "Wade's team—they really take all three out?"
Tom nodded. "Clean. Professional. Those boys don't fuck around."
"Damn." Jake stared at his beer. "I owe them."
"You don't owe anybody shit," Pops said. "You're family. This is what we do."
Billy went quiet for a second, staring at the floor. "I thought we lost you, man." His voice cracked. Then he cleared his throat hard. "Would've been real inconvenient. Who else would I have to make fun of?"
"Pussy," Jake said, but his voice was rough.
"Fuck you."
"No, fuck YOU."
They both laughed, but it was shaky.
"I put a tracker on that truck so fast," Pops said, leaning back. "Had it on there before those assholes even got to the highway."
"You're a sneaky old bastard," Tom said.
"Learned from the best." Pops raised his bottle to Tom.
The beers kept flowing. Stories got louder, then softer. The adrenaline was finally draining away, leaving nothing but bone-deep exhaustion.
Junior started a sentence about the thermal camera and didn't finish it. Just slumped against the wall, eyes closed, beer bottle tilting in his hand.
"Junior's out," Billy said. Then he yawned so wide his jaw cracked.
Jake's eyes were already half-closed on the bottom bunk. "Just gonna rest my eyes..."
Louisiana stretched out on the floor mattress. Celab took the top bunk. Billy sprawled next to Louisiana, one arm over his face.
Beer bottles sat half-empty on the floor, condensation pooling on the old wood.
Pops and Tom were the last ones standing, leaning against the wall, watching the boys sleep.
"Good kids," Tom said quietly.
"Damn good kids," Pops agreed.
They finished their beers in silence. Then Pops settled into the chair by the window, and Tom took the other bunk. Within minutes, they were out too.
The house went quiet at noon, as silent as if it were midnight. Downstairs the kitchen looked like a storm had hit it—dirty plates stacked high, empty casserole dishes, beer bottles and bourbon glasses scattered across the counter, the pot roast pan still on the stove. Nobody cared. Upstairs in the frat house, the only sound was Pops snoring. Everyone safe. Everyone home.
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