Working with Bea edited

You shift yourself awake. God, the frozen air doesn’t let up around here. One of these days, you’re gonna have to buy yourself a better coat.
It’s still dark out. But, if it’s freezing under your covers or freezing in your coat, you don’t see much point in staying in bed. You’re seriously gonna have to consider doing something about the heat in this house.
Catching the thought, you take a look around the place. The house is sturdy but could definitely be in better shape; but the closer you look, the smaller problems become evident.
There’s a spot on the ceiling, probably from a pipe leaking. Following the wall, there’s some paint coming off in the corner. A bit of wood in an adjacent doorway is slightly chipped.
None of these problems are truly major, but they’re still noticeable.
Since you’re already awake, maybe hitting the Ol’ Pickaxe early is a better idea than not. You don’t imagine a rush, but you’d rather start figuring things out sooner rather than later. If anything, you’re probably giving Bea something to do.
You take a quick shower, make yourself presentable, and eat a quick breakfast. Not long after, you’re out the door.
You arrive downtown a little slower than usual, some forty-five minutes after sunrise; you don’t wanna take your chances driving your not-quite-there bike on ice. Coming up towards the Ol’ Pickaxe, you see small amounts of movement inside. Bea’s inside, rummaging around the counter and back. She looks… miserable.
You quickly wonder if this is a good idea. I mean, she doesn’t look like she’s in a good mood. On the other hand, does she ever?
You take a deep breath and push the door open. She turns towards you; normally, clerks you were used to put on the “Is that a customer?” face when you enter a store. Bea’s petrified gaze seems like it asks, “Who the HELL dares ring that bell at this hour?”
You instinctively swallow your spit.

Player: Hi, Bea!
Bea: [Player name]
Player: Yeah, hey! I’ve got some questions, I was hoping you could help me out.
Bea: About?
Player: …Hardware?

Her cold stare holds fast.

Bea: You’d better come back later.

She quickly ducks behind the counter.

Player: Oh, are you busy right now?

Almost on cue, she drops a VERY large bag of rock salt onto the counter. The label reads “industrial.”

Bea: The town’s asking the Pickaxe to salt the roads and sidewalks. Could take all day.
Player: Oh, man. Is anybody gonna be helping you?
Bea: …

She just stares at you. It feels like her soul is scowling at you. She goes back to what she was doing.

Bea: My crew called in sick.
Player: Are you getting… *any* help?
Bea: Probably not.
Player: Oh.

This doesn’t sit right with you. The whole town? By herself?
You feel you should help. You also don’t know Bea too well, though she seems like she’d know where to hide your body.

Player: Maybe I could give you a hand today?

She raises an eyebrow at you. You think. Her facial expression doesn’t give you much to work with, but it looks like she’s… paying attention?

Bea: For what?
Player: ...So you don’t have to salt the town by yourself?
Bea: No, I meant *for what?*

You put the pieces together. She thinks you’re asking for cash. You remember she’s probably the one in charge of her payroll, too.

PLAYER CHOICE:
	•	Goods and services rendered? (-1)
	•	Don’t worry about it. (+1)

Choice One: Ask Her Directly
Player: Well, there’s some home-improvement work I don’t really know how to deal with, so help and advice on that?
Bea: ...Not cash?
Player: Well, I mean, I *can* pay you, but I’d kinda rather just get the thing looked at.
Bea: So, you’re putting up with a full day of manual labor. For a house call.
Player: ...Yeah?
Bea: Eff this. I’m desperate. Meet me outside.

OR
CHOICE TWO: DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT

Player: Oh well, uh… I guess I’m not AGAINST the idea of you paying me, but… let’s worry about that later, okay?
Bea: ...Sure, I’m desperate enough. Bags are in the back. Grab one and meet me outside.

She hauls her bag over her shoulder and makes for the door. You grab your admittedly heavy bag and follow her outside.
Bea: We load the bags into the cargo bed of the pickup.  Then we go street by street.
Player: Sounds simple enough.
Bea: You ever done lifting like this before?
Player: I’ve helped move a TV or two.
Bea: Okay, imagine that, but there are multiple TVs that are all 50 pounds, and if we mess up, someone slips and dies, and we don’t get our commission.
Player: Gotcha.
…
Player: Wait, are we worried about the guy dying, or getting the commission?
Bea: Just grab the damned salt.
Player: On it!

Player: Wait, so how do we actually do this?
Bea: Well, it’s not ideal, but I figured one of us would drive, and one of us would salt.
Player: From the bed?
Bea: You catch on quick.
Player: Is that… safe?
Bea: Do you have a better idea?
Player: Well, no.
Bea: So, you wanna drive, or shovel?

Player: I’ll spread. I can take the weather.
Bea: Your funeral. We start at the Clik-Clak. Go eastwards from there.
Player: Sounds good. Any advice?
Bea: Spread salt. Don’t fall.
Player: ...Easy enough.
Bea: Good. Here’s your walkie.

She hands you an outdated walkie-talkie.

Player: This is how we talk?
Bea: You ever notice your questions all sound like answers?
Player: Message received.
Bea: Obviously not. Get in.

You hop into the bed of the truck.
You never felt like you ever had a solid grasp on what Hell was supposed to be like, but a two-man job salting an entire town feels like it’d be welcome in the suggestion box. You said you could brace the cold, but your jacket can’t quite keep up with your dropping temperature.
The weight of the bags you’re pouring out leaves a dull, numbing feeling in your shoulders, and every so often, your back makes a popping sound you can’t really put your finger on, literally or otherwise.
Those sounds are natural, therefore healthy, you tell yourself. Not like you can do anything about it.
Most of the time is spent with Bea driving slowly, just so you can have the time you need to get a shovelful of salt over the bed of the truck- one side of the road at a time, twice up and down each street.

Bea: *CHRRTCK* How you doin’ out there?

You reach for your walkie.

Player: I’m kinda freezing, Bea.
Bea: *CHRRTCK* Thought so. Don’t blame me.
Player: Wasn’t planning on it.
Bea: *CHRRTCK* Then get back to it.
Player: You buzzed me!
Bea: *CHRRTCK*…Yeah. Sorry.

With that, you put the walkie away.
Winter in Pennsylvania was never an enemy of yours, but if you didn’t know any better, you’d say it was trying to pick a fight. It’s no snowstorm, but the wind is certainly doing a number on what bits of you are exposed.  You’re also up to your shins in salt- you literally dumped the bags into the bed so shoveling would be easier. As it was into the truck, as it is onto the asphalt; dumped with little abandon. You decide to pipe up once you finish the street you’re rolling down.

Player: We’re good here Bea. Take us back to main.
Bea: Come again?

You hear muffled music through the walkie. Your ears have been filled with nothing but wind for the last hour, but Bea must be seriously blasting whatever she’s got on for these ancient mics to pick them up.

Player: We’re done here! We can move on!
Bea: Shit. My bad. Roger that.

With that, Bea pops a U-turn back towards main street. You two had made it to the outskirts of town; around you is mostly treeline, with a few scant houses.
At a stop sign, you look over the side of the bed. Even with all your hard work, the ice won’t be melted for a while; your eyes instinctively drift downwards. As Bea drives through, You reach for your walkie.

Player: Bea? You there?
Bea: Yeah, what’s up?
Player: Did anyone at town hall say anything about snow tires?
Bea: …No, wh--

WHAM! CRAAASH!

Your vision turns hazy, and you lose your footing in the bed. The sheer volume of clashing metal made your ears ring.
Immediately after, you’re off your feet.
There’s a lulling, almost blissful moment where everything is floating. Then you feel yourself hit the ground, and everything goes black.
…

Bea: ...assholes! Get back here before...

…

Player: uuuuuuuurgh.
Bea: …shit, shit, shit…
Bea: …Player? …Player?!

Your eyes slowly peel open as you just as slowly regain consciousness. You’re still lying on the ground, but your head’s been propped up somehow.

Bea: Player! Holy shit, thank god!

Tilting your head back and gaze upwards, you see Bea kneeling over you. She doesn’t look… angry? This time?
You attempt to garble out a sentence.

Player: Whughhappuh?
Bea: Shh, try to rest your head. We got hit and you fell.

A dull pain fills your… entire torso, really. The back of your head has a dull, aching throb to it.

Player: …Er, you… okay?
Bea: Wh- I’m fine! How do *you* feel?!

There’s some worry in her voice. A welcome change of pace.

Player: Bea…? How’s the truck?

Bea: …
Bea: The truck? It’s… over there. Some kids couldn’t slow down enough and they hit most of the bed.
Player: Kids…? Where?
Bea: They took off. I don’t have a phone to call cops with. They got away before I could see them. I wanted to… *Huff* I… *Huff*
Bea: Shit! Seriously, Player, are you hurt?

You quickly look around. The truck’s still over there, all right; over there, being in the middle of the intersection. There’s a pretty big dent in the side of the bed.
About thirty pounds of salt are scattered through the intersection.

Player: Wow. Big hit.
Bea: Yeah, it was… a lot. I made it out fine.
Player: That’s good. Really good.
Bea: Shit, shit… do you need anything?

PLAYER CHOICE
	•	Medical Attention (Neutral)
	•	A Cigarette (+1)

Choice 1: Medical Attention

Player: I don’t suppose first aid is out of the question?
Bea: I checked the truck. We have an empty bottle of disinfectant, and some band-aids.
Player: …Of course we do.

Choice 2: A Cigarette

Player: Bea?
Bea: Yeah?

You struggle to sit up. Your hat must have cushioned your fall, but you’re supremely lucky to not have a concussion.
Your back aches like you were fifty years older.

Bea: Careful!
Player: Ugh. Ow, uh… Can I... have a cigarette?

Bea stares at you, dumbfounded. After an awkward few seconds, she reaches into her coat pocket, and procures her pack.

Player: Thanks.
Bea: Do… you smoke? Ever?

Player: Well, given that I apparently almost gravely injured myself, I’d say now’s not a bad time to try it.
Bea: Not sure I get the correlation?
Player: Live every day like it’s your last?

You put the foam filter in your mouth. Bea hands you her lighter, and you strike it.

Bea: That’s… not how I think they meant it.

You light the cigarette and take a puff- the bite of the tobacco is coarse, and rich. Bea doesn’t smoke golds, apparently.
It makes you cough, and the smell is as unpleasant as you remember.

Player: *cough* So if it was your last day on Earth for certain- *cough* …you wouldn’t smoke at least a pack?
Bea: I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever gone through a pack in a day.
Player: Really?
Bea: *Maybe*, like, ten total cigarettes in a day. Once.
Player: Ah.

You cough harder.

Bea: You ok?
Player: *cough* …Maybe…
Bea: Hard habit to quit.
Player: So… what now? We’ve still got some streets.

Bea looks at you, and sighs a heavy sigh. The nicotine hits your head, and you feel a brief moment of calm.
Although you worry that you’re going to go through withdrawal later, you don’t really care right now.

Bea: I don’t know, dude. I’m gonna have to get this done, one way or another.
Player: Yeah… hope no one presses you about the truck.
Bea: I’m pretty sure it’s the town’s? You shouldn’t be worrying about that right now.
Player: I wonder if Town Hall can afford truck insurance?
Bea: Player, look. I can get the rest of this done. I can drive you home, and get Gregg to get your bike back to your place. But… if you think you’re up for it…
Player: Hm?
Bea: …I hate that I’m considering this, but, you *can* stay with me until we’re done.

That “can” didn’t sound so much of a *can*, much more of a “please.” And it wasn’t the kind of “pretty please” some people prefer, but more like a “I *beseech* you.” Nothing too wrong with pride, you suppose.

Player: I’m not leaving, Bea.
Bea: You sure?
Player: I said I’d help. It’d be shitty to just take it back.
Bea: You were almost hospitalized.
Player: I’d need a hospital for that. I don’t have THAT much cash.
Bea: Fair enough.

You try to stand your uninsured self up, and try to ignore the several dull pains permeating your head and torso. Your balance is a little off once you’re up, but you quickly find your center after a moment.

Bea: …You sure you’re ok?
Player: I’m… ok. I’m ok.
Bea: Is… that ok?
Player: I thought answering your own questions was my bit.
Bea: Hey, I’m actually worried here. Don’t be shitty.
Player: Sorry, sorry, just… drive slow, okay?
Bea: Yeah. Sure. No Problem.

You pick yourself back up, and waddle towards the dented bed of the truck. Your arms and legs are sore, but the pain is mostly dull, and more bearable. Bea watches you with caution in her eyes.

Player: You know I can’t sue if I die, right? No need to be so tense.
Bea: I’m just a little bit averse to seeing people die, believe it or not.
Player: Sorry, just… trying to brighten things up.
Bea: You’ll learn about trying to do that here.
Player: That it doesn’t work?
Bea: Now you’re getting it.

Once you slowly climb into the bed, you grab the shovel and give Bea a double-tap on the roof to get her going.
The second half of the day is long, arduous, and taxing on your weakened self.
The cold doesn’t let up. The salt, while decreasing in volume, doesn’t get any lighter.
The streets of Possum Springs, while making up an almost unbelievably small town, still require a good amount of physical labor to salt.
For one person, mind you. If you had a team, this’d have been done hours ago.
Suddenly, Bea being so sour this morning makes even more sense than you thought it did.
When the two of you finished and returned to the Ol’ Pickaxe, most families in Possum Springs would have finished eating dinner at least an hour ago.
You nearly collapse when you enter the store, but hold yourself up on the counter.

Bea: Holy shit, thank effing GOD that’s over.
Player: You’re…*huff* telling…*huff*... me.
Bea: Shit, dude, are you okay?
Player: Bea, how are you still standing?
Bea: I am the physical embodiment of exhaustion.
Player: No kidding.
Bea: Are you sure you’re fine, dude?
Player: I mean, do you have any aspirin?
Bea: I should… lemme check.

Bea opens and shuts several drawers under the counter, then dashes into the back room.
Your headache has slightly subsided, but the pain of the fall lingers.
Most of your aches and pain have melted together into one symphonic arrangement of sore muscles, artfully spread throughout your body.

Bea: (Shit!)

She slowly trudges back into the room and leans back onto the counter.

Player: …So, no dice?
Bea: I usually keep a bottle here. I must have just gotten lazy with replacing it.
Player: Ah.
Bea: Shit, dude. I pop at least one a day, I should remember these things better.
Player: Hey, it’s no biggie. I’ll just find some on the way back.
Bea: Well, actually, I could just drive us to Ham Panther. I’d personally feel better about doing that then if you got on your bike right now.
Player: That’s… a fair point. And... really nice of you.
Bea: Don’t think about it too much. I still owe you for helping.
Player: Huh?
Bea: Well, I mean, you getting hurt wasn’t part of the agreement. It’s an addendum for your trouble.
Player: That’s a fantastic addendum. Should we go?
Bea: Yeah, let’s.

The two of you pile into Bea’s car, rather than the heavily-dented pickup truck.

Bea: Ugh, city hall’s gonna bitch at me for WEEKS for that.
Player: Well, if they do, lemme know. I’ll threaten to sue.
Bea: You’d do that?
Player: Sure. Even without it, honestly, you might be able to haggle a little extra into your fee.

She considers that for a moment.

Bea: I could, couldn’t I?
Player: Pretty sure. Hell, I’d wrap my head in gauze and hunch over next to you. Really sell it.
Bea: Huh. Noted.

With that, she starts the car and pulls onto the road towards the highway.
The drive to Ham Panther isn’t long, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. The heater in Bea’s car has, so far, been the highlight of your day. At one point you spread your fingers out in front of it like it was an open fire.

Bea: Geez, dude.
Player: What?
Bea: You didn’t catch frostbite or anything, right?
Player: Nah, I just… need gloves. And a new jacket.
Bea: Ham Panther has some if you don’t mind cheap ones. Gloves, I mean.
Player: You had me at “cheap” and “gloves” in the same sentence.
Bea: Good point.

Finally, you see it. A shining testament to the convenience of corporate America, Ham Panther subtly prides itself on being open almost 24/7. You and Bea hop out of the car, and walk towards the entrance.

Player: Doesn’t Gregg work here?
Bea: Yeah, but I doubt he’ll actually *be* here.
Player: I don’t take Gregg for an early-shift kinda guy.
Bea: Well, thing about Gregg and Angus, they somehow can *always* get away from work.
Player: No kidding?
Bea: Yeah. They’re probably at home, warm. Eating something nice. Surrounded by blankets.
Player: Oh, man, eff them. All comfy ‘n shit.
Bea: I know, right?

The two of you enter the store, and meander over towards the generic-brand drugs. After a bit of searching, you procure yourself a big bottle of store-brand pain-relief pills, and a bottle of water for the car. Bea’s grabbed a slightly smaller bottle of a name-brand pill.

Player: Releve?
Bea: I need the strong stuff.
Player: I believe you.

You both pay for your medicine and head back to Bea’s car, pop some headache pills, and then drive back into Possum Springs proper. You exit the car outside the Ol’ Pickaxe.

Player: Thanks for driving me.
Bea: Thanks for helping out today.
Player: Thanks for not letting me die back there?
Bea: You’re welcome.
Player: Will I see you at band practice?
Bea: Most likely.
Player: Until then?
Bea: Yeah… see you, Player.

She heads back into the pickaxe. You eye your bike; You’ve still gotta ride home. At least it won’t be AS painful.

The ride back isn’t notable by any means; you’re just happy to be back home. You make yourself some instant noodles, get under your covers, and bask in the glory that is MSG.

Truly, this is adult living.

You slurp down the last of your soup, chuck the cup into your trash can, and let your fatigue drop you to sleep almost instantly.
_____________________________________________________________________________________
OPTION 2: PLAYER DRIVES

Player: I’d probably be better driving.
Bea: You never salt stuff before?
Player: Not really. City did it for us.
Bea: And now we’re the city.
Player: Gotta give back somehow.
Bea: That implies they gave us stuff first.
Player: Did… did they not?
Bea: They’ve taken a lot more.

She hands you an outdated walkie-talkie.

Player: This is how we talk?
Bea: You ever notice your questions all sound like answers?
Player: Message received.
Bea: Obviously not. Get in.

You get into the driver’s seat of the pickup, and close the door.
It makes sense that this is probably just some pickup city hall just happened to have; the interior just screams ‘70s at you. You’d hate to have to fill this thing up on today’s gas prices. Luckily, you knew how to drive a manual transmission.

Bea: *CHRRTCK* Yo.

You reach for your walkie.

Player: Yeah?
Bea: Start at the Clik-Clak. Then we go East from there. Drive slow.
Player: Got it.

You pull out of the parking spot and head out.
It turned out that the truck’s heater wasn’t exactly the most functional thing in existence; for the most part, you’re relying on your shoddy coat and the truck’s cabin to keep warm. You hoped that Bea, perpetually in motion, was faring better. You grab for your walkie.

Player: Bea?
Bea: *CHRRTCK* Yeah?
Player: You doing okay out there?
Bea: I was doing better when I was ignoring the weather.
Player: Shit, sorry. Am I driving too fast?
Bea: You’re fine, just… lemme focus- I wanna get this over with.
Player: Roger.

Winter in Pennsylvania was never an enemy of yours, but if you didn’t know any better, you’d say it was trying to break you down. It’s no snowstorm outside, but the chill is so perfectly sharp that even inside, you find your teeth chattering. You feel worse for Bea, up to her shins in salt; the two of you literally dumped the bags into the bed so shoveling would be easier. As it was into the truck, as it is onto the asphalt; dumped with little abandon. You decide to pipe up once she’d finished the street you’re rolling down.

Player: Next street?
Bea: Yeah, let’s go.

With that, you pop a U-turn back towards main street. You two had made it to the outskirts of town; around you is mostly treeline, with a few scant houses.
As you drive along, you consider asking Bea more about Possum Springs. If anything, she’d be more blunt about the truth than Mae, Gregg, or Lori.

Bea: You okay in there?

You almost jump in your seat at the sudden radio.

Player: Yeah, just kinda bored. And cold.
Bea: Cold seems to be the theme for today. At least you’ve got a radio.
Player: I… haven’t been using it?
Bea: You mean you’ve been driving me around in silence? This whole time?
Player: I suppose, yeah.
Bea: Wow.
Player: Well, the heater’s busted! I didn’t think *any*thing in this pile of shit would work.
Bea: Fair.

The two of you chat on and off for a bit. As you’re driving, you see a nearby stoplight in front of you turn green. You continue through the intersection, when out of the corner of your eye, you see a car quickly approaching.
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
Odd, their light should be red--
RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
SCREEEEEEECHHH!
OH SHIT. SHIT. SHIT.
With almost no time to react, you *floor* it and *crank* the steering wheel. You hear a collection of loud THUNK and BONK sounds coming from the bed, and you assume you’ve thrown Bea for a loop. You have to hold onto the steering wheel for dear life for a moment, as you spin out towards the side of the intersection.
You don’t make that much rotation, but for what it felt like, you turned the pickup into a goddamn beyblade.
After the longest few seconds of your life, you hear a *thud* and stop moving. The truck collided with a nearby snowbank.
You grab your radio and press down.

Player: Bea?
…
Player: Bea?!

You exit the truck as fast as you can. Bea’s not in the bed anymore.
Quickly, you scan the intersection. Bea isn’t on the street, save for a half-burnt cigarette butt. You shout out her name.

Player: *Bea?!*
Bea: …over here…

You turn towards a separate snowbank across the intersection. You see two black leather boots, with black pants attached to them.
Gothic tropes indicate a goth, and you rush over, almost slipping on the ice as you do.
You reach Bea. She’s simply staring skywards, her trademark blank expression still plastered onto her face. She blinks a couple times, then closes her eyes and… sighs.

Player: Holy shit, are you okay?
Bea: Yeah, just gimme a minute.
Player: Sure, just… does anything hurt?
Bea: I landed in a pretty decent patch of snow.
Player: Softly?
Bea: Softer than ice and asphalt.
Player: That’s… something?
Bea: It’s always effing something.

She attempts to sit up, only to let out a heavy groan as she picks herself out of the snow. She sits upright and brushes bits of dirt and ice off her coat.

Player: Did you land on your back?
Bea: Yeah, I did. It’s a little sore.
Player: Well... better than broken, right?
Bea: Not better than basically everything in my life going wrong, one by one.
Player: What?
Bea: Sorry, I… oversharing. Forget it.
Player: Oh… kay, well, I’m cool with taking a break if you are.
Bea: Yeah, let’s.

Enough salt was thrown out of the bed of the truck to scatter evenly across the intersection, so you weren’t worried about finishing the job around here.
There’s apparently, according to Bea, a few hours of work left to be done.
As you two sat on that snowbank, the dread of having to stand up and work again starts seeping in.

Player: Bea?
Bea: Hm?
Player: Do you think maybe I should salt from the bed from here on?
Bea: Nah, you don’t have to. This was supposed to be on my staff.
Player: Well, I don’t think you’re really in the best condition to do it.
Bea: You crashed into a snowbank, and *you’re* feeling fine?
Player: I didn’t fly out of a truck and land flat on my back! Bea, just lemme throw the stupid salt.
Bea: Player, I’m not gonna let you tell me how to do my job, or let you do it for me!
Player: You won’t be able to *do* your job tomorrow if this is how you approach being injured!
Player: If you’re put out of commission because of me, that makes *me* the worst worker you’ve ever had.
Bea: Dude, it wasn’t your fault you had to dodge those effing kids.
Player: So you admit it wasn’t your fault that this job’s gone wrong? Therefore, not your fault if it doesn’t get done?
Bea: It *has* to get done.
Player: Says who?
Bea: Says the city who’s cutting my check!
Player: And if it’s not done by today?
Bea: Then our pay gets docked.
Player: So, between the choices of letting yourself off the hook for a few hours and hurting yourself for a few more bucks, you’re gonna hurt yourself?
Bea: Yes.
Player: Y’know, if this is a pride thing…
Bea: *Don’t* act like you know me.
Player: Okay, so it *is* a pride thing.
Player: I promise no one finds out about this and all future favors are under-the-table. NOW will you let me shovel?

Bea stares at you, and hesitates. You see her shiver, then tense up when she tries to turn away. She’s really gotta be in *some* pain.

Bea: Deal. This doesn’t leave this truck.
Player: Say no more. Wanna get going?
Bea: Ugh. Fine.

For the rest of the day, you come to find a new respect for exactly how much seems to be put onto Bea’s shoulders.
If she was in charge of an operation as grueling as this, and decided to try to fly solo anyways before you showed up, that’s some serious commitment to the job.
More realistically, a serious commitment to not going hungry. The shoveling is a workout and a half, just making sure enough salt gets everywhere.
You don’t really have time to neatly spread it like the town might want, but the Possum Springs might want to reconsider how they decide to get this done.
After more than a few hours, the two of you return to the Ol’ Pickaxe. Once you get inside, you nearly collapse onto the register desk.

Player: Thank *God* that’s over with.
Bea: If God’s real, he had nothing to do with it. That was effing *us* suffering.
Player: Okay, uh… thank you, my own body, for not collapsing on me.
Bea: Well, thank *you* for saving my ass. I don’t know what else I would’ve done.
Player: You were dead-set on doing this on your own, if I remember correctly.
Bea: And it’d take twice as long, so I wouldn't've even *been* where we almost crashed.
Player: Oh. My bad.
Bea: Dude, it wasn’t your fault. Just more of the universe’s never-ending pile of shit it throws at me.
Player: Speaking of which, do you have any aspirin? My… everything hurts.
Bea: I should… lemme check.

Bea opens and shuts several drawers under the counter, then dashes into the back room.
Your headache has slightly subsided, but the pain of the fall lingers.
Most of your aches and pain have melted together into one symphonic arrangement of sore muscles, artfully spread throughout your body.

Bea: (Shit!)

She slowly trudges back into the room and leans back onto the counter.

Player: …So, no dice?
Bea: I usually keep a bottle here. I must have just gotten lazy with replacing it.
Player: Ah.
Bea: Shit, dude. I pop at least one a day, I should remember these things better.
Player: Hey, it’s no biggie. I’ll just find some on the way back.
Bea: Well, actually, I could just drive us to Ham Panther. I’d personally feel better about doing that then if you got on your bike right now.
Player: That’s… a fair point. And, really nice of you.
Bea: Don’t think about it too much. I still owe you for helping.
Player: Huh?
Bea: Well, I mean, I’d think today’s events are cause enough for some hazard pay.
Player: Gotta love the hazard pay. Should we go?
Bea: Yeah, let’s.

The two of you pile into Bea’s car, and you’re on your way towards the highway.
The drive to Ham Panther isn’t long, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. The heater in Bea’s car has, so far, been the highlight of your day. At one point you spread your fingers out in front of it like it was an open fire.

Bea: Geez, dude.
Player: What?
Bea: You didn’t catch frostbite or anything, right?
Player: Nah, I just… need gloves. And a new jacket.
Bea: Ham Panther has some if you don’t mind cheap ones. Gloves, I mean.
Player: You had me at “cheap” and “gloves” in the same sentence.
Bea: Good point.

Finally, you see it. A shining testament to the convenience of corporate America, Ham Panther subtly prides itself on being open almost 24/7. You and Bea hop out of the car, and walk towards the entrance.

Player: Doesn’t Gregg work here?
Bea: Yeah, but I doubt he’ll actually *be* here.
Player: I don’t take Gregg for an early-shift kinda guy.
Bea: Well, thing about Gregg and Angus, they somehow can *always* get away from work.
Player: No kidding?
Bea: Yeah. They’re probably at home, warm. Eating something nice. Surrounded by blankets.
Player: Oh, man, eff them. All comfy ‘n shit.
Bea: I know, right?

The two of you enter the store, and meander over towards the generic-brand drugs.
After a bit of searching, you procure yourself a big bottle of store-brand pain-relief pills, and a bottle of water for the car.
Bea’s grabbed a slightly smaller bottle of a name-brand pill.

Player: Releve?
Bea: I need the strong stuff.
Player: I believe you.

You both pay for your medicine and head back to Bea’s car, pop some headache pills, and then drive back into Possum Springs proper. You exit the car outside the Ol’ Pickaxe.

Player: Thanks for driving me.
Bea: Thanks for helping out today.
Player: Will I see you at band practice?
Bea: Most likely.
Player: Until then?
Bea: Yeah… see you, Player.

She heads back into the Pickaxe. You eye your bike- you’ve still gotta ride home. At least it won’t be *as* painful.
The ride back isn’t notable by any means; you’re just happy to be back home. You make yourself some instant noodles, get under your covers, and bask in the glory that is MSG.
Truly, this is adult living.
You slurp down the last of your soup, chuck the cup into your trash can, and let your fatigue drop you to sleep almost instantly.