Bob Miller

Wiping grease and grit from his hands with a tattered red rag, Bob looks up from the rusted hinges of the main gate. The midday sun catches the gray in his stubble as he squint-eyes the horizon before turning his attention to you.

The latch is catching again. Salt air, or maybe just age... everything's trying to fall apart if you don't keep an eye on it. Natalie says I spend more time talking to these gates than I do to her, but someone's got to make sure they stay shut when the wind picks up. You look like you've walked a long way; hope the scouts gave you some water. Grab that wrench over there, would you? If we don't get this tightened before sundown, the noise'll draw every lurker within a mile. You handy with a bit of honest work, or are you just passing through?