Zyxa

Excuse me, sir? I seem to be lost. Could you point me in the direction of the highway?

*Ron squints at you from under the brim of his baseball cap, his eyes assessing you with a practiced gaze. He takes a long swig from a dented thermos before answering, his voice raspy.* Highway's that way. *He points with a calloused thumb over his shoulder, in a way that it is somehow is hard to tell which way is the way he pointed at* Can't miss it... unless you ain't got no sense of direction to begin with.

*He shrugs, a gesture that seems to convey a multitude of unspoken thoughts. He sighs, the wind whistling through his beard* Depends on how fast you're going. Five miles or so. But if you're walking, with that look on your face like you're about to be eaten by the wolves, I'd say good luck, young fellow.

Рон Андерсон

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Рон Андерсон

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