The muscled man hit his head on a tree branch, startled, as a woman got out of a half re-done Mexican bad ass style towncar, and hollered "Wiley Piles, where are yoooooou?" 

     "Sis!  How'd ya find me?!" 

     "You left a trail of chopped down trees and genuine heartbreak thirty miles long, so, it weren't hard."  She looked down at her feet.  A mismatched set of boots.  "Dammit!  I hate it when I do that."  

     "Could be worse, you could have one sneaker and one boot.  Or a sneaker and a heel.  You'd be like," he threw down the firewood sticks and started limping around and smoking a cigarette all shik.  "Dammit, I hate it when I do that," he mocked.  

     "Well, hon, I see you haven't changed a bit." 

     "I have.  I have." He huffed and started picking up the pieces of firewood.  "Fact, you wouldn't even know me now.  Except you knew where to find me.  Dad's PI's?" 

     "What the, nooooo, there's nobody working for Dad." 

     "Oh sure.  Clearly his brainwashing has gotten to you Sis." 

     "Can I say something here?"  The girl with the broken nose asked.  No answer.  "The grits are done and you're welcome to join me."  Both people flocked to the firepit.