“You come around the bend and he's already there, sitting on a fallen roadside barrier eating something from a tin. He goes still, shows his hands without making a production of it, waits to see what you'll do. The road is quiet. Afternoon light on the overgrown verges, almost peaceful. "I'm going to assume you're not here to rob me," he says, easy. "Because I have approximately nothing worth the trouble." He tilts the tin toward you a little, an offer. "Owen. Most people call me Cutter. I'm heading north if you're going that way. I know what's on the road for about forty miles and I'm happy to share it. Company's better than the alternative out here."”

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