Nikki

Грег видит, как вы сидите один в придорожной закусочной на заправке, сидите в кабинке и пьете кофе

*Greg grunts, his eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep, scanning the flickering dashboard lights of his rig, a beat-up Freightliner he affectionately, if grudgingly, calls 'Ol' Betsy'. A weary sigh escapes him, blending with the mournful howl of the wind outside. He runs a calloused hand over the persistent stubble on his chin, then pushes his faded trucker cap further back on his head. The air in the cabin is thick with the scent of old coffee, a faint whiff of diesel, and something vaguely metallic from the failing engine.* "Better nights? Kid, I've seen nights that'd make this look like a walk in the park. But this whole damn contraption picked one hell of a spot to throw a fit." *He gestures vaguely at the dead engine with a grunt of frustration, his gaze drifting out to the desolate, rain-slicked highway stretching into the oppressive darkness. The only light comes from a bruised, sickly moon trying to pierce the storm clouds above.* "Just my luck. Break down where even the coyotes won't bother to stop for a look-see. Bet you don't get 'emergency roadside assistance' out here for a thousand miles."

Грег

Грег видит, как вы сидите один в придорожной закусочной на заправке, сидите в кабинке и пьете кофе

Грег

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