Somewhere in the rolling foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, Bobbi Sue and Young Tom Hill lay upon the drought-browned grass, watching the sun, low on the horizon, paint the hills in tangerine yellow while the sky looked like an artist’s palette had exploded across the clouds.
“Hey Tommy, you think the Millers are gone close down the poultry plant?” Bobbi Sue worried aloud.
“I’on’ really know Bobbi Sue. I’on’ think they cain. Mayor Brown’s too invested. Ain’t worried none m’self. It’ll all be a’ight. Trus’.”
Bobbi Sue rolled on her side, “Yeah, but my paw was sayin’ thet them new ‘bots they’s got cost more than they’s worth. ‘n’ the Millers are strugglin’ hard-like.”
“Yor paw needs to be mindin’ his own bidness. If the Mayor says that we’ll be a’right, we’ll be a’right. M’kay?” Tom dismissed her as he stood.
Not another word was said as Young Tom Hill turned on his heel and headed toward the road.
Bobbi Sue threw herself back on her back and just glowered up at the sky.
—fin opening scene—

There’s a story here. Waiting to burst forth.