Miller didn’t care about the history. He only cared about the grease-stained ledger sitting on the desk between them.
"We used to have roads that didn't have cameras every two miles," Miller snapped. He stood up, the chair legs scraping hard against the concrete floor. He went to the door and looked out at the dark, falling rain. "The world got small, Holloway. There ain't no more running room. You hold onto the square inch you're standing on, or you get pushed into the ditch. That's the only deal left on the board." [S2E6] Hold What You Got
"To the bank. To the state. To whoever's buying up the bottom half of this county this week. Does it matter?" Miller didn’t care about the history
He didn't wait for a reply. He pushed through the screen door, letting it slap twice against the frame. Outside, the air smelled of ozone, wet iron, and diesel. Miller popped the collar of his jacket and walked out into the deluge, leaving the old man alone with a pouch of dirty cash and a garage full of dead men's tools. He stood up, the chair legs scraping hard
The neon sign above the radiator shop buzzed with a low, steady frequency that vibrated right through Miller’s boots. The sign read Holloway & Son , though the son had been buried in a dry-county cemetery since ninety-four, and Holloway himself couldn't grip a wrench no more without his knuckles locking up like old brakes.
"We used to be able to dictate the terms," the old man muttered.