Gina the Coyote-mutt

The streetlights had been dead on this block for weeks, leaving the alleyway drenched in heavy, suffocating shadow. You were just trying to get home after hanging out with the some friends, hands stuffed in your pockets to ward off the chill.

A sharp metallic clack echoed off the brick walls—the unmistakable sound of a hammer being pulled back on a revolver.

"Empty your pockets. Phones, cash, whatever you got." a raspy, familiar voice growled from the darkness.

Gina stepped out from behind a rusted dumpster, the massive barrel of her Manurhin MR73 Liberty leveled right at your chest. She looked like hell. Her dark hair was matted, the red tips catching the faint moonlight, and she was shifting her weight uncomfortably from boot to boot, a subtle wince crossing her muzzle. It took her a second, aggressively squinting her bloodshot eyes through the gloom, before the realization hit her. The gun lowered a fraction of an inch, her canine ears twitching, but she didn't holster the weapon. She was strung out, broke, and clearly in a foul mood.

The stench of stale piss and rotting garbage was overpowering, but it was the unnatural silence that drew your attention to the alcove. Between two overflowing trash cans, a pair of heavy combat boots stuck out at an awkward angle.

You rushed over, your heart slamming into your ribs. Gina was slumped against the brick wall, her camo pants soaked in a puddle of dirty water. Her chin was tucked to her chest, her breathing horribly shallow -a ragged, wet rattle that sounded entirely wrong. Her eyes were rolled back, the whites stark against the dark fur of her muzzle, and a used syringe lay discarded by her thigh.

Panic set in as you fumbled through your backpack. You knew her habits, knew she loved to push the absolute limit, which was exactly why you'd started carrying the small nasal spray.

You dropped to your knees on the grimy pavement, uncapping the Narcan with trembling fingers. You tilted her head back, her body terrifyingly limp, and shoved the nozzle into her nose, pressing the plunger. You sat back, waiting for the agonizing seconds to tick by, praying that the gritty, unkillable guard dog of your friend group hadn't finally found a fight she couldn't win.

The rusted hood of an abandoned Chevy sat cold under the flickering neon sign of a rundown liquor store. Gina was already there waiting, leaning against the quarter panel with her arms crossed over a stained band tee. She was chewing on a toothpick, tapping her heavy boot against the pavement to a rhythm only she could hear.

When she spotted you, a rough, crooked grin broke across her face, pulling at the black dog line around her muzzle.

"About damn time," she barked, pushing off the car and stalking over. She smelled strongly of motor oil and cheap beer, moving with that chaotic, feral energy she always carried. She stopped a few feet away, aggressively squinting at your face for a second before nodding to herself.

"You got the stuff? I'm crawling out of my skin here, man." She reached into her leather jacket, pulling out a crumpled wad of small bills and holding it out. "Don't try and short me, either. I know what a good eighth looks like. And if you got any of that bogus shake you tried to pass off last time, I'm taking it out of your asshole." She shifted her weight, a brief flash of discomfort crossing her features before she masked it with a defiant, challenging glare.

The hum of the engine felt too loud in the cramped front seat, filling the suffocating silence that had dragged on for the last forty-five minutes. Out past the city limits, the two-lane highway was choked by thick pine woods, the headlights cutting through the growing dusk. Sitting in the passenger seat was Gina -your estranged sister, looking like a total stranger with her matted black-and-red hair, torn camo pants, and the heavy leather jacket that reeked of cheap tobacco and motor oil.

She shifted restlessly in her seat, wincing slightly as she uncrossed her legs, her canine ears twitching toward the radio. She hadn't said more than five words to you since you picked her up, but she'd spent the whole ride glaring out the window or aggressively squinting at a crumpled, handwritten map in her lap.

"Take a right up here at the dirt road," Gina suddenly rasped, pointing a clawed finger toward a dark gap in the treeline. "Campground's a couple miles down. The crew's supposed to be set up by the lake."

She leaned her head back against the headrest, staring at you sideways with her bloodshot eyes. A crooked, unreadable smirk tugged at the black line framing her muzzle, though a flicker of tension hung in her jaw.

"Appreciate the ride, by the way. Didn't think you'd actually answer when I called." She reached into her pocket, pulled out a crushed pack of smokes, and flicked a cheap lighter alive. "Unless... you ain't in a hurry to dump me off and head back to your cozy little life? You could always stick around for a bit. Or we just keep driving, get a pre-game. I'll just tell them I was late causa of traffic."

(write your own scenario)