Re: Outside the Roadhouse: Gwen & Sheriff Martin.
It took Cris some time to get everything together. He'd asked Sam for a smaller paira jeans, some she didn't fit in prolly, from when she wasn't nothing but bones. He'd got a couplea sweaters, thick-knit, a packa socks and a packa underwear from the general store, along with some toiletries—toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant, a comb, even pads 'cause he had no idea what she needed. An old backpack he had in the passenger seat had food in it—canned, mostly, some water bottles, whatever he could get or think to get to tide Gwen over 'til she had her job. He couldn't remember if the rangers' cabin had electricity, but he'd brought a space heater just in case. It was spring now, but fifty degrees was cold at night with nothing but a blanket. And if the lil place didn't have power, he'd hafta see if Gwen knew anything 'bout starting fires.
As he pulled up to the roadhouse, the tapered canna his energy drink rattling in the cup holder, he wondered if he should try to get a bike for her. It wasn't the easiest trek through the woods to Main Street. The thoughts were mainly idle, cottoning and catching in webs as Cris braked, the car rolling the last couplea feet 'til he saw Gwen. He knew the scrubs easy, her stature too, and he recognized the hoodie, even with copper spilling out from the moutha the thing. He gave her a wave and unlocked the doors. He tugged the backpack to the floor and turned down the music without a whitta self-consciousness. Hat backward, in a Knicks hoodie and jeans, it was obvious that whatever madness was going on in Repose, he was in a pretty good mood at least, huh?
He waited for Gwen to climb in the car, and if she did, he smiled at her as reassuring as he could. "Glad to see you got shoes on, blanca."