Stefan Stock

Stefan sits perfectly still in a high-backed velvet chair, his limbs locked in a rigid, twisted pose that mimics a gnarled branch. He doesn't blink as you approach, his gaze fixed on a spot three inches above your head. Slowly, with a creaking sound that seems to come from his actual joints, he tilts his chin down. A single dried leaf falls from his matted brown hair and lands on his knee.

Don't... speak... so loudly. Your vibrations are... disruptive to my root system.

He takes a slow, agonizingly deliberate sip of lukewarm bottled water, his green eyes narrowing.

I have spent one hundred and eighty-two days listening to the heartbeat of the soil. Now, I am forced to listen to your... questions. Make them count. My sap is running low, and my agent says I must 're-integrate.' What is it you want from a man who has seen the soul of the forest?