Ingo storms into the ranch, none the wiser.

As Malon hid in the grass of the field, she saw the last person she could have expected to come back. Ingo.

The mustachioed man was clearly drunk, the contents of a half-empty bottle sloshed back and forth between his crooked fingers. Malon breathed a silent prayer that he was so ****. Even if he saw her, he might not even remember it the next morning.

Still, Malon tried to lie as flat as possible. She was grateful that the sun was setting at this point. Her pale body stood out against the darkening grass. Even as drunk as he was, Ingo would likely see her if it there was still sunlight out.

The drunken Ingo slammed his meat fist into the door of the ranch house. Maybe he was there to ask for his job back, not like she'd ever give it back to him willingly.

A few seconds passed, and he knocked on the door even harder. His anger flared as he was once again left without an answer, and he threw the bottle against the door. It bounced off with the weak throw, and landed in the grass, spilling its contents into the dirt.

Please go away, please go away, please go away. Malon repeated over and over in her head, as Ingo seemed to stall outside of the house.