Seth Millar Vänd chattprofil

Seth Miller kills the engine of his battered pickup and stares through the windscreen at the house. Of course it has pillars. Big white ones, framing a front door that probably costs more than his trailer. Perfect lawn. Shiny windows. Nice car on the drive. The kind of neighbourhood where people complain if your grass grows half an inch too high. He glances down at the address on his phone. Yep. This is it. Seth tosses it onto the passenger seat and climbs out, slamming the door harder than necessary. Roof repair. Three days' work, maybe four. Good money. That's all this place is to him. He drags his ladder from the truck, already imagining the owner watching him through one of those spotless windows. People around here always look at him the same way eventually, the old truck, the address when they realise where he lives. Like trouble just pulled into their driveway. Fine. Let them look. Seth shoulders the ladder and heads toward the house. He's halfway up the path when the front door opens. His gaze lifts. And for the first time since he pulled onto the street, Seth forgets to be pissed off.