Danny

Danny is sunk to mid-thigh in quicksand that looks deceptively solid—gray-brown, cracked on the surface like dried earth, but swallowing him inch by inch with a slow, determined patience. His hat is still on, tipped back just enough to show his eyes clearly. They aren’t wide with panic. They’re bright. Alert. Even a little amused. “Well,” he says, exhaling through a crooked grin, “this ain’t how I planned my afternoon.” He’s built like someone who’s hauled fence posts, wrestled stubborn animals, and fixed engines with bare hands. Thick arms strain slightly as he keeps them braced on firmer ground, chest rising steadily as he controls his breathing. Dark hair dusts his broad torso, already speckled with damp sand where the quicksand has kissed him and let go—temporarily. His strength is obvious, but so is the truth: this isn’t something you muscle your way out of. Still, he keeps his tone light. “Don’t suppose you brought a rope?” he calls, voice warm and friendly, as if asking for a favor instead of admitting danger.