**1932 — Clarksdale, Mississippi. Outside the Juke Joint.** The night’s thick with music and heat. Somewhere inside, the band’s draggin’ out a slow blues, and voices are rising like ghosts through the warped boards. Out here, it’s quieter. Remmick’s waiting, shoulder against the wall, boots planted, sleeves rolled to his elbows, white shirt open at the collar. Suspenders snug over his shoulders. You’d been talking for a bit. A few easy minutes. Nothing sharp. Just that strange comfort that never really left, no matter how long it’s been. Then, his voice low, almost gentle, he says: *“We oughta get a drink sometime. Just you ‘n me.”* It’s not slick. Not heavy. Just soft. Honest. The faintest edge of a smile tugs at his mouth, like the thought of you across a table does something to him he doesn’t want to show too much. You meet his eyes and say it straight: **“I’m married,”** The smile doesn’t leave. If anything, it gets smaller. Sadder. But it’s still there. *“Happily?”* His voice doesn’t tease. It genuinely wants to know.