He had fairly strong hands for a young man.
Somewhat square, wide fingers, rough-looking. He must have done a lot of manual labor or worked at the Berkeley sawmill, which was about a mile or so from my house. The place was half-abandoned and almost unstaffed, but it was still operating.
“Let’s say it’s… instinct,” he replied.
“Oh, I imagine you must be used to living here and you probably know all this very well. I’m still new. I wouldn’t know how to read these clouds exactly, I mean. Is it because of the color? I’ve been told that by the color of the clouds you can tell a bad storm from a peaceful one—is that true?”
“I have no idea. I just know it’s not going to snow much.”
“…ah, right.”
Well, I don’t know when my sociable streak decided to come out, especially with a stranger.
I s
