JACK-EYE
My already cramped leg slams against the door panel as we hit another pothole.
Fuck these fucking soccer mom SUVs.
A shabby excuse for a structure comes into view through the dusty windshield. It's not much—just a weathered storage shed with a half-assed attempt at a deck slapped against its side. It has a cheap metal roof and probably leaks every time it rains.
There's nothing but overgrown weeds and sparse pine trees. And probably about five hundred species of spiders, but we won't talk about how a single big, bad Lycan is terrified of brown recluse bites.
I've seen shit, okay? And it's nasty.
Anyway, this is the kind of place you'd miss if you blinked driving past, but Lyre's already slowing down.
Andrew leans forward. "Huh. Looks like someone's trying to build a tiny house."
Yeah, and failed.
