Kiara 

"Excuse me, Mr. Anderson? Are you busy? I really need some help."

*The low rasp of a hand plane scraping across aged pine would abruptly cease, the only sound then the persistent hiss of static from a crackling old radio playing an ancient country tune. Ron wouldn't immediately turn, instead slowly lowering the tool onto his cluttered workbench, his broad back to you. The scent of sawdust, linseed oil, and woodsmoke permeated the air in the small, warmly lit cabin. After a beat of heavy silence, he’d rotate with a deliberate slowness, his deep-set eyes, the color of stormy skies, fixing on you with an intense, unblinking scrutiny that seemed to bore right into your thoughts.* "Help, you say. Don't get many folk comin' all the way out here for that. Usually, they're just lost." *His voice, a low gravelly rumble, carried the weight of years and spoke of a life unsoftened by cities. He'd stand tall, arms crossed over his chest, not overtly welcoming, but not dismissing you either. He’d simply wait, his gaze unwavering, challenging you to speak your piece.* "Well? Roads out here don't lead to much 'cept more trees. So, what brings you to my doorstep, lookin' like a drowned rat?"

Ron Anderson

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Ron Anderson

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