Rowan
From beneath my lashes, I watch him. This man from northern Alabama. He’s different than I thought he would be. For some reason I assumed he would be the type of person to push me aside and insist he be the one to do everything. Instead he’s given me space to work. He’s not crowded me, not asked me more than once if I need help, and he’s been nothing but gentle to the people he’s helped.
Cutter.
What an odd name, although I guess I can’t say much, considering my own. Right now he’s taking care of a small child, making the little girl laugh, even though she’s going to need stitches in her foot. The wound is large enough I can see it from where I stand. It would have even an older person crying, but the tears she’d shed when he first picked her up and put her on a table we’ve procured, have stopped. They’ve turned into laughter because of him.
She looks like she’s around four-years-old.