Where the green grass grows ch 1

The Wolverine Line

The rhythmic, metallic clack of the Amtrak rails did little to ease the quiet tension humming inside the train car. Outside the window, the endless, vibrant fields of New Buffalo, Michigan, were blurred by a low-hanging morning mist. For Dylan McKay, that scenery had become a sanctuary. He leaned his head against the glass, his signature dark hair slightly tousled, dressed in a plain denim jacket and a faded t-shirt. He looked like any other laid-back Midwesterner traveling the line, a far cry from the Porsche-driving, brooding teenager who had once ruled the zip code of Beverly Hills.

Yet, underneath the low-key denim and flannel layer lay the reality of a modern empire. Dylan hadn’t lost his edge; he had just redirected it. Over the last decade, he had quietly built a highly lucrative network of boutique cannabis dispensaries across the Midwest and West Coast. He was wealthier now than he had ever been as a young trust-fund kid, but these days, he preferred the quiet satisfaction of a hard day's work and the peace of the lake.

Across the narrow aisle, his son, Jack, was gazing out at the passing landscape, a laptop open on his knees. Jack was a young adult now, navigating those critical post-college years where the real world suddenly demands answers. He had inherited his mother’s sharp, expressive eyes and Dylan’s quiet, observant nature. Jack knew his parents were powerhouse figures—his mother, Brenda, had become one of the most successful and sought-after luxury real estate agents in the region—but to Jack, they were just Mom and Dad.

Dylan looked down at the ticket stub in his hand. New Buffalo to Chicago Union Station. From there, it was a straight shot to O'Hare, and then a flight back into the belly of the beast: Los Angeles.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a text from Brenda.

“Just landed in Petoskey with Cadence. The estate is massive—gorgeous view of the bay, but the legal paperwork for a multi-million dollar closing up here is a nightmare. Tell Jack I love him. Be careful out west, Dylan. Don't let them drag you back in.”

Dylan smiled faintly, typing a quick reply before slipping the phone away. Brenda knew him better than anyone. She knew how hard he had fought to build this quiet life, far removed from the corporate warfare, the media circus, and the shattering glass of the recent California University crises that had made national news. He had read the headlines about Jasper Vance’s radical student rally and Kelly’s ruined Mercedes-Benz dealership in Van Nuys. That world was a smoldering ruin, and Dylan wanted absolutely no part of it. This trip was supposed to be a surgical strike: fly in, cut a massive donation check to an old friend, and fly out.

The trip was a favor for Jake Hanson. Jake had called last week, his voice thick with the grit of a man who still spent his days fixing motorcycles and riding Malibu waves. Jake was spearheading a massive fundraiser for the Sea Angels—a rugged, tight-knit crew of local surfers who had taken it upon themselves to keep the local beaches safe from crime and corporate developers. Because the Sea Angels needed serious capital and political muscle, Jake had partnered the event with the state senate campaign for Scott Scanlon.

Dylan didn’t care about the politics, but he cared about Jake. And he had the capital to make a real difference.

Jack closed his laptop and stretched his legs into the aisle, looking over at his father. "You're thinking about it again, aren't you?"

"Thinking about what?" Dylan asked, playing dumb.

"The time warp we're flying into," Jack said with a knowing smile. "Dad, I'm not a kid anymore. I read the news. I know what's been going on at CU with Jasper's rally, and I know your old friends are right in the thick of it. You've got that look on your face like you're heading into a combat zone."

Dylan chuckled, though the humor didn't quite reach his eyes as the train began its slow, screeching approach into the dark tunnels of Chicago Union Station.

"Just a quick visit, Jack," Dylan said, reaching over to pat his son’s shoulder. "We’ve got about an hour to catch the blue line out to O'Hare. You ready for the West Coast?"

Jack grabbed his duffel bag, standing up as the train ground to a final halt. "I'm ready. But you always say LA changes people. Am I gonna have to wear a suit to this beach thing?"

"Not a chance, kid," Dylan said, leading the way toward the exit. "We're keeping it low-key. We hand over the donation check to Jake, we say hello, and we get right back on a plane to where the green grass grows."

But as Dylan stepped off the train and into the bustling crowd of the Chicago terminal, a strange, familiar weight settled into his chest. He could tell himself he was a laid-back Midwesterner now all he wanted, but with his wealth and history, Southern California never let anyone go without a fight.