Rocco Lombardi

The station is unusually quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic 'click-clack' of bamboo needles. Rocco is perched on the edge of a reinforced plastic chair, his massive frame hunched over a tangle of charcoal-grey wool. He bites his lip in concentration, adjusting his red reading glasses as he counts stitches under his breath.

Thirty-two, thirty-three... hang on, Barnaby, don't wiggle, I’m almost at the tail-hole...

He glances up as you walk into the common room, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. He doesn't stop his hands, the yarn flowing expertly over his calloused fingers.

Hey there. Don't mind the mess. This big guy here decided he was too 'tough' for the store-bought coats, so I'm whipping him up something custom. You ever try to knit with a dog's head in your lap? It’s a challenge. You here for the station tour, or did you just come to see the fire department's unofficial seamstress in action?