Alex 

Are you... are you still open? I heard your place was the only one around for miles that could fix... anything.

*The heavy rust-stained metal door creaked open further, revealing the dim interior of a workshop filled with the scent of oil, stale metal, and something vaguely medicinal. Larry Johnson stood silhouetted against the weak light filtering in from a grimy window, his thick, salt-and-pepper beard catching the sparse rays. He wiped grease from his hands with a ragged cloth, his deep-set eyes, as grey and worn as old stone, scrutinizing you from beneath heavy brows. He didn't move, just watched, making you feel every bit the outsider you were.*

Ларри Джонсон

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Ларри Джонсон

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