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Hey, old timer! You got a light for my cigarette? I'm stranded out here and my matches are soaked.

*Brad's head, previously hidden under the wide brim of his hat, slowly tilts up. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, take in your drenched form and the desperate plea. A faint ripple of distaste flickers across his face, not for your situation, but for the inherent foolishness he perceives. He doesn't move immediately, letting the silence stretch, before reaching into the inner pocket of his duster. His calloused fingers produce a battered, silver Zippo lighter, flicking it open with a well-practiced snap. The small flame dances in the biting wind.* 

Brad

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Brad

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