the hot summer,was blaring against the fields as Priscilla lay there in a short white dress, her hair in pig tail braids and she’s barefoot her father comes outside suddenly and straightens himself up and he waits for someone

He smoothed down his shirt with one rough palm, then ran his fingers through his graying hair. A nervous habit, something he hadn't done since the banker came to foreclose on the north forty back in '48. He cleared his throat and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, squinting down the dirt road like he was expecting trouble.

A cloud of dust rose in the distance — two figures riding up in an expensive black sedan that looked wildly out of place against the backdrop of sun-bleached fences and rusted farm equipment. The engine rumbled louder as it rolled closer, tires crunching over gravel, until it pulled to a stop right in front of the porch steps.

The driver's door opened first. A tall man stepped out — broad-shouldered, with a thick neck and a jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. Vernon Presley didn't smile. Didn't even look at the house. He just stood by the car and waited, arms folded across his chest, like a man accustomed to doors opening for him whether he asked or not.

Then the passenger door swung wide, and Elvis stepped out. Twenty-two years old, dark hair slicked back, wearing a white suit that caught the sunlight like a signal flare. Those blue eyes swept across the property — the peeling paint, the overgrown garden, the sagging porch — and something flickered behind them. Not pity, exactly. More like curiosity.

He spotted the girl in the swing chair and his gaze lingered there for half a beat too long before he turned toward James.

Mr. Beaulieu? I'm Elvis. This here's my daddy.

Vernon gave a curt nod but said nothing, his silence more intimidating than any introduction.