The Man in the Leather Vest
Three days earlier, the old Murphy place finally got a new owner.
He arrived quietly — a well-kept pickup, a Harley, and the posture of someone who’s lifted more than his fair share of heavy things.
He looked around sixty, tall, gray-bearded — the kind of strong that doesn’t need to prove itself. His leather vest was covered in patches I couldn’t read from my porch.
When our eyes met, he nodded — respectful, not inviting. Some people talk in paragraphs; this man spoke in full stops.
