bombs & bottles. goat.

Joplin’s friend had rolled up to her house late, telling her she’d learned of a party and they absolutely had to go. Joplin didn’t know who was hosting, but she didn’t particularly care. Parties usually meant a good time, no matter whose house it was. She’d thrown together an outfit (something cute and small, like always) and followed her friend out to some run-down house on a far street.

The party is fine. Not great, not terrible. Just fine. The alcohol is nice, but the people have a strange vibe to them. Joplin can’t shake it, not when she’s dancing, or pouring shots, or asking her friend to mix her another drink. She wonders if it’s actually the party that’s off, or if it’s just her. She isn’t even drunk. Just unpleasantly buzzed.

There’s a tap on her shoulder, and she turns, expecting to see her friend with her next drink, but instead, she sees a girl she doesn’t recognize. Granted, she doesn’t recognize a lot of people at this party, but this girl instantly cements herself as strange when she thrusts a photo into Joplin’s face. She stumbles back, grabbing the photo before it can flutter to the ground. “Hey! You seen this guy anywhere?” the girl asks. “He's supposed to live here.”

Joplin glances over the photo. The man looks like any other man, one who would whistle at her and comment on the length of her shorts. Nothing special or out of the ordinary. Nothing that would make him remember his face. “I don’t actually know who’s hosting this party,” she admits. “I’m just here for a good time.”

She holds the photo back out to the girl, the edges crumpled from how she caught it. “But I can help you find him, if you want.”