Jill pushed through the holiday weekend crowd at the Roughrider’s Rest, a bar outside Fort Yates, North Dakota. The joint was a time capsule of rural America: walls adorned with worn-out farm equipment, dim lighting, and heavy air redolent of history, hops, and hookups.

“You Joe?” Jill asked the old guy at the bar. He nodded, his face a roadmap of wrinkles telling stories of years in the prairie sun.

“Heard you’re handy with HVAC systems,” he rasped, swirling his whiskey.

“That’s right,” Jill said.

“I got a rush job,” Joe said, lowering his voice. “My daughter’s house. Boyfriend says it got so cold last night the inside felt like the business end of an ice pick.”

Jill raised an eyebrow. “Just the both of them living there?”

“Beth’s spending 90 days in rehab,” Joe said.

“And him?”

“He’s the only one there, and he’s still cooking meth,” Joe spat.

Jill smiled deliberate-like. “I’ll do it for free.”

“Why?”

“That’s none of your business,” Jill said.

They shook on the deal, and Jill knew this would be interesting … real interesting.

Text and photo copyright © 2023 L.T. Hanlon. This blog post is flash fiction.