Wraa

‘Walk-the-Fences’ sat down in the booth across from Shirley. He didn’t know her last name, but then she only knew him as Calvin. She smelled faintly of cat urine, but she was a kind and caring soul. A rare thing these days. She was currently using a handful of paper napkins in a vain effort to dry off from the storm outside that had soaked her. She'd had a hard life, dealing with the loss of her children and husband in a single instance when a drunk driver had hit them head on. She alone had survived the crash. Shirley often wondered what God she had angered to have earned such a torment. In time, when she couldn't deal with the loneliness any longer, she had adopted a kitten. In the next year, she'd taken in two more strays. Then one night, the little apartment building she was in had caught fire. Police had blamed some kids in the basement experimenting with drugs, but there was never an arrest. Shirley had lost all three cats and everything else she had owned. The manager

Even with only one eye, Calvin ‘Walks-the-Fences’ Flint had found it easy enough to hop on the slow moving train when he spotted the open door on a boxcar. Hobos had been doing it for a long damned time, no reason he couldn’t too. The voice was low and gravelly, but it held a tangible threat of violence. “You watch it kid. I know how to use this knife.” The young Garou nearly fell backwards as he spun around. It was an old man, sitting against the back wall of the boxcar, the shadows nearly hiding him. ‘Walks-the-Fences’ held his hands out in front of him, palms facing the old man. “Hey, I’m not here to harm anyone, just looking to catch a ride to Saint Louis.” He said easily with a thick Kentucky drawl. The man squinted at him for a moment before nodded slightly and he slowly lowered the knife back down to the blanket covering his legs. “So what’s in Saint Louie young’in?” ‘Walks-the-Fences’ slowly took his backpack off and set it beside him, removing his canteen and cup.