[s2e6] Hold What You Got Instant

Miller didn’t care about the history. He only cared about the grease-stained ledger sitting on the desk between them.

The neon sign above the radiator shop buzzed with a low, steady frequency that vibrated right through Miller’s boots. The sign read Holloway & Son , though the son had been buried in a dry-county cemetery since ninety-four, and Holloway himself couldn't grip a wrench no more without his knuckles locking up like old brakes.

"The boy didn't come back," Holloway said, his voice sounding like gravel being turned with a spade. He didn't look at Miller. He looked at the window, where the rain was just starting to turn the red clay outside into a slick, impassable soup. "Left his truck. Left his tools. Left the bay door unlocked." [S2E6] Hold What You Got

He didn't wait for a reply. He pushed through the screen door, letting it slap twice against the frame. Outside, the air smelled of ozone, wet iron, and diesel. Miller popped the collar of his jacket and walked out into the deluge, leaving the old man alone with a pouch of dirty cash and a garage full of dead men's tools.

Holloway reached out with a trembling, liver-spotted hand. He didn't take the bag. He just touched the leather with the tip of his finger, as if expecting it to be hot to the touch. Miller didn’t care about the history

"I'm exactly what the ticket said." Miller leaned back, his synthetic jacket crinkling. He looked tired. Not the kind of tired a night of sleep fixes, but the kind that gets down into the marrow and stays there. "You want to hold what you got, Holloway? Then you stop looking at what you lost. This is the pile. This is the whole damn stack. You either lock it in the floor safe or you let the wind take it. I'm done holding the bag."

"To the bank. To the state. To whoever's buying up the bottom half of this county this week. Does it matter?" The sign read Holloway & Son , though

"We used to be able to dictate the terms," the old man muttered.