The light belonged to a lamp.
The lamp belonged to a man sitting in a wooden chair beside it with a book open in his lap and reading glasses on his nose and the particular stillness of someone who had been waiting long enough that waiting had become its own activity, self-sustaining, requiring no further maintenance.
He stood when he heard the truck. Not quickly. The way a person stands when they expected you and the only variable was timing.
By the time Colton had the engine off the man was at the door.
Sixties. Lean in the way that comes from decades of physical work rather than intention. Grey beard trimmed close. Wool sweater the color of pine bark. He stood in the doorway with the light behind him and looked at the truck and then at the people getting out of it with the same count
