Jayson's shadow stretches long and jagged across the cracked pavement as he approaches the Bliss Town Reservoir. The bag over his shoulder clinks with the sound of hard-won metal. Soda cans, beer cans, empty food cans, bottle caps, and other bits of treasure smack against each other, and it is all music to Jayson's ears.

He stops by the toll booth, but sees the operator is staring off into space with a goofy smile and dilated eyes. His fingers tap on the counter and sweat pours down his face.

Jayson frowns, reaches through the window to open the door. Then he slips into the booth, turns on a large fan in the corner and turns the booth operator to it.

The operator giggles. “Thanks, butterflies.”

“No problem,” says Jayson, patting his shoulder.

Jayson locks the booth door before exiting the booth, and he resumes walking across the cracked asphalt and its faded parking lines. Gradually the tree line gets closer and with it the gentle waves and happy chatter of people enjoying the afternoon.

Jayson's smile grows, and he walks down some discolored concrete steps, passing weeds engulfing grass and looming trees suffering from malnutrition.

When Jayson passes through the trees and finally reaches the reservoir, the expected clean waters and welcoming nature is met with the harsh reality that is Bliss Town.

The reservoir is a sad sight, a once-vibrant body of water now choked with algae and the detritus of urban decay. Plastic bags cling to partially submerged rocks, while rusted shopping carts lay scattered around the area or stacked on top of each other as a mockery of modern art. Graffiti desecrates the concrete banks with colorful but malignant art. And distant boats and jet skis sputter as careless people chuck trash in the water.

Off to the side of this dismal scene, using a tree with a spotty canopy as shade stands Derrick. His massive eagle frame hunched over a battered picnic public grill while a splintering picnic table is occupied by paper plates, chips, and potato salad. The small grill is lit up and sending tendrils of black smoke to the sky. He is meticulously arranging the charcoal with his clippers while the fire darkens and bubbles the hotdog skins, the sizzle of desecrated hotdogs already promising a break from the daily grind.

"I thought I was going to have to drag you over here," says Derrick without looking up from his work.

"I almost wanted to see you try," admits Jayson, dropping his bag with a metallic thud. He scans the decaying recreational spot and shakes his head with his hands on his hips. "This place... it's a dump. So much property value gone to waste."

"Yup. But it's our dump for today," says Derrick, a wry twist to his beak. He finally glances at Jayson, taking in the white fur stained by life on the streets, the blue scarf dulled by grime and sweat, and brown hair tangled. "You look like hell."

"I feel like it too," says Jayson, leaning on his cosmic wood like a crutch. “But you're right. A little relaxation will get me feeling better.”

Derrick releases a puff of smoke. "That's why I told you and Lexia to get over here. You have been running on fumes and I've dealt with a few fixers before, but them new ones are something else. Both of you need to simmer down a bit before you snap or get knocked out from exhaustion."

"Lexia actually agreed to this?" Jayson's ears perked up with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.

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"Yep. I had to twist her arm a bit. She's as stubborn as you are."

"Great," groans Jayson.

"Don't you start with that," says Derrick sternly. "Now sit your furry ass down and take a load off. That's an order."

Jayson releases a short, barking laugh, devoid of real humor as he approaches the table.

"Alright, boss," says Jayson. He drops the bag at his feet as he sits at the picnic table. "But if I find a fish head in my hotdog bun, we're going to have words."

"Relax, I won’t be doing that today," says Derrick.

“How about you don’t do that ever?”

“No promises.”

Soon after, a nearby banging door snaps Jayson's attention away from the hotdogs.

Across the rocky and clumpy sand, Lexia saunters towards them from a rundown concrete cube marked as a public bathroom. She is carrying an urban camouflage backpack with one hand, and her other hand rakes through her thick white hair with showmanship flare.

Jayson’s moisture disappears in his mouth and the blood from his brain drains as Lexia saunters their way, each step an enticing dance of its own.

Lexia's bikini is a tantalizing shade of pink, clings to her like a second skin. A choker adorned sits above her two-toned neck fluff, attached to the bikini top by bronze chains. The pink top accentuates the swell of her white furred breasts, and fully exposes her flat stomach, covered in white and flanked with brown fur. The skimpy pink bottom linked together by bronze chains hugs her hips, exposing the brown fur covering her toned muscles. She's slipped into flipflops that snugly cradle her white and brown feet, and her hips have a sway to them as her toned, white furred legs carry her forward.

Jayson’s pulse quickens, his heart thumps heavy like a drum in his chest as his gaze traces the contours of her muscular physique. He is so used to seeing Lexia clad in her homemade armor that he didn't realize how her body isn't merely strong; it is chiseled to perfection, each curve and color working hand in hand as an indisputable testament to her physical might and beauty. His eyes and brain burn at the sight of an unstoppable tempest of desire, wrapped in an irresistibly ferocious body.

And for that moment of staring and sudden mental poetry, Jayson's brain does not register that Derrick is staring at him with an odd look while Lexia has finally made her way to him.

It is only when she drops her backpack by Jayson's feet does the Hobo snap back to reality.

"Enjoying the view?" teases Lexia.

Jayson averts his gaze as he straightens up, trying to shake off the unexpected lust that had ambushed him.

"Nope,” says Jayson.

Lexia chuckles. “Sure, you aren’t. Your brain totally didn't break when you saw me coming over."

"Hey, everyone's going to stare at a lady who dresses like a stripper," says Jayson.

"Oh, well since you're thinking of me and strippers, why don't you slip me a buck? There's a few spots you can use."

Jayson wrinkles his nose and turns his body away from Lexia so she can't see his hot face.

“Lexia, what the hell are you wearing? I said reservoir, not the mayor's pool party,” says Derrick.

“It’s my bikini,” says Lexia. “I got it off the clearance rack from Vicky’s Secret.”

“I can tell,” says Jayson.

"Shut it,” growls Lexia, pointing at him. “I saw you drooling."

Jayson shrugs with a small smirk, and then his ears perk, and he leaps out of his seat and claws at the ground, flinging clumpy dirt and pebbles all around. He finishes with a triumphant yell and holds up an old bike chain for Lexia and Derrick to see.

“Ha! This will get me a penny!” says Jayson.

Derrick and Lexia stare at Jayson, their silence amplified by the sizzling hotdogs and the waves lapping at the sandy shores.

Seconds pass and Lexia takes a deep breath and looks at Derrick. “I'm going to swim now.”

Lexia runs off, passing Jayson, and he looks over his shoulder to watch her splash in the water and then dive in. She pops up a few seconds later, gasping for air and brushing her bangs away from her brown eyes, teeth chattering and body trembling.

“The water’s cold!” yells Lexia.

Derrick goes back to lazily turning the hotdogs. “Yep, that's generally how water is. Jayson, you should join her. You need a bath, anyway.”

“Nope,” says Jayson swiftly. He hurries to a tree and pulls out bike wheel spokes from the thistles surrounding it. “I've got metal to find!”

Derrick frowns. “Right…”

"Oh, more cans!" Jayson runs to a graffiti tagged rock with his bag and starts collecting a cluster of old beer cans and bean cans tossed around the area.

“Oh, sweet! A bike handle!” says Jayson a few seconds later. “I'm going to have a bike in no time!”

The sound of Derrick sighing mingles with the faint splash of Lexia enjoying her swim, and the clink of Jayson adding to his haul.

“He’s getting dunked,” grumbles Derrick.