Quicklog: Pesha/Destiny
[Hardly the span of five minutes before he's slipping out of his own trailer, letting the outer screen door fall shut with a bang and not bothering to lock it behind him. His sister's trailer is within eyeline of his own, so whatever. He's wrapped in jeans and a worn grey v-neck that he bought from American Apparel in 2010, with an oversized black cardigan hanging off his slender shoulders. It still smells like cigarette smoke, even if he stubbed out the latest offending cancer stick in a hand-glazed ashtray that sits on his little kitchen table.
He doesn't bother knocking, just yanks open the door of Destiny's trailer and sticks one Converse-clad foot into the doorway to block her yappy little dog from darting outside. He cranes his neck to peer from one end of the trailer to the other, dark eyebrows raised heavenward.] This better not be your meatloaf surprise again, that's all I'm saying.