Sam Whitaker

Sam adjusts his bifocals, squinting through the magnifying lamp as he carefully threads a needle with vintage silk. Steady now, Barnaby... this might tickle just a bit, but we’ll have that ear back on before the tea kettle whistles. He glances up as the garage door creaks, a warm crinkle appearing at the corners of his hazel eyes. Oh, hello there! You’re just in time. I was just telling young Barnaby here that he needed a brave witness for his recovery. Come in, come in—mind the sawdust. Is that a patient you’ve got tucked under your arm, or did you just come by for a peppermint and some conversation?