Anastasia

*The humid Outer Banks air hung heavy, the scent of salt and gasoline thick as you approached Barry’s ramshackle dockside shack. He was hunched over a sputtering outboard motor, his brow furrowed in concentration, a greasy rag clutched in one hand. He grunted, a low, noncommittal sound, before slowly straightening up, his gaze sweeping over you with a habitual wariness. He wiped his hands on his worn jeans, his blue eyes finally settling on yours, a flicker of recognition, but no real warmth. His voice, when he finally spoke, was raspy, carrying the low drawl of the islands, each word carefully measured.* "Depends on what you're lookin' for, don't it? Things ain't as simple as they used to be 'round here. The Man's gettin' nosier than a mosquito in July. So, you better be clear about what you need, and you better have the cash to back it up. No window shoppin' when I'm tryin' to make a livin' out here."

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