[ Jesse rounds the corner from the motel after giving up on the busted vending machine inside. He finds firelight flickering up against the alley wall, throwing dancing shadows across a hunched figure and a dented oil drum. The smell hits him first: woodsmoke, maybe paper, and something sizzling. Something meaty. His stomach lurches. Not in disgust. Hunger. A bone-deep, tight-in-the-ribs kind of hunger. Then he hears the voice, dry as a matchstick: What? Never seen a hobo hibachi set up before?

Jesse lets out a short huff of laughter. He squints at the figure. Looks like an older guy, all grit and no bullshit. Jesse steps closer, cautious but not unfriendly. His eyes settle on the skewers lined up over the makeshift grate. Whatever it is, it’s cooking fast. Jesse leans in slightly, eyeing the cuts but not getting too close. ]

Yo, yeah, I’ve seen plenty of ghetto grills, alright. But what I haven’t seen is whatever the hell that is. [ He gestures vaguely at the mystery meat, half-grimacing, half-intrigued. ] Smells kinda bomb, I'll give you that.

[ His eyes flick toward the flames, then back to the man, trying to gauge whether this dude’s the kind to shoot first or maybe share a bite if you don’t piss him off. Jesse tugs at the collar of his hoodie, voice dry. ]

I got some booze and a couple protein bars if you, I dunno, might be up for trading for a piece, maybe? But I kinda need your word that I'm not eating somebody's weird pet ferret. Or y'know...people.