At the words "brush" and "paint can", in association with his truck, Caleb's hands froze over the register and he stared at Royce.
As a hunter growing up among living dead and talking wolf-people, Caleb learned at an early age that a hunter is all about the job. Growing too attached to people or things could become a liability later on. Stay mobile, stay light, hunters can move to fight. That was their motto...
... but Caleb loved his truck. L-O-V-E. He felt a little like a knight riding into the sunset on his trusty steed when he drove his truck. And the idea of slathering his baby with cheap store-bought paint pained him.
"Um... no," he said flatly, fingers coming back to life to tap in his order. "And yeah, thanks for passing the word. 'Preciate it. Your total comes to $8.58."
Royce flipped the bill onto the counter, and Caleb did his register thing. Change poured out through the spout on the side of the machine, and he counted out the remaining bills to return to the wolf. "Oh, you know, fighting the forces of evil, hunting down renegade night bumpers, that sort of thing. Gotta pay the bills and all. Weapon repairs don't come cheap."
"Anyway, that's why I'm in town, running around with burgers and battle batons. On a hunt. But I'm surprised to see a pair of lone wolves running around pack territory. Didn't think packers and loners ran the same trails."