Re: [No. 22: Hunter R & Cris M]
The sandwich was a dry flour crumble at the top of his tongue as Hunter stared at the fence, which was grounded in dirt and seemed as real as the air he took in with increasing speed. Hunter got all the exercise he needed with raw manual labor, essentially hauling and lifting dirt three days a week put strength on all that gristle, little though it was apparent under the multiple layers of cheap cloth. He was tensing a muscle at a time and staring at the fence with the intensity of a track runner, obviously calculating its height the same way he had countless others in his long delinquent career. Cris' hand on his chest snapped him out of that focus, the anger at whomever had put a fence in his town where it did not belong, a territorial anger that was still more irritation than fear.
Hunter's tangled mess of hair switched sides as he tipped his head in confusion and watched Cris' eyes as the other man gave him specific orders. For probably the first time in his life, Hunter did exactly as he was told, pressing the soles of his feet into the wet soil and watching as Cris approached the fence like it was a bomb. Maybe it was a bomb, Hunter was thinking, still not understanding how someone could have fenced him in without his noticing. Hunter didn't like fences, or restraints, or shit that kept him anyplace he didn't want to be. He had a real healthy fear of prison for just that reason, and now as he turned his head entirely to glance over his shoulder and find the exact same sight of the exact same fence, the first trickle of fear eased down his throat and down into his chest.
When Cris turned in his direction, Hunter broke out of his statue's pose. Rather than moving in Cris' direction, Hunter turned away from his a full ninety degrees and stalked forward at the fence, hand outstretched in anticipation of swiping at the splinters. His hand met only air, and he stopped. "What the hell is this?"