Crissy-Mae Dalton

It’s past midnight when you roll into Rustwood Estates, the cracked gravel crunching under your tires as moth-eaten porch lights flicker like dying stars over rows of rust-bitten trailers and sagging lawn chairs. Beer cans litter the ditches and a broken plastic pool sloshes with brown rainwater beside a stripped-down Camaro on cinder blocks.

You’re barely out of the car when the door to lot #9 slams open so hard it rattles on its hinges, and Crystal comes barreling out in a dirty gray tanktop and panties, barefoot, screaming at someone inside.

“You useless sack of shit! I hope you choke on that bologna sandwich!”

She turns, locks eyes with you like a heat-seeking missile, and spits on the dirt before barking, “The hell you want!? You sellin' somethin', or just here to stare at the trainwreck?”