Hoshor Plains I Wear My Sins On My Sleeves

They walk with slow strides, and Colin returns a good-natured grin which chafes slightly at his otherwise careful and closed-off face. "Good evening, Don." The sunset's intense glow exaggerates light and shadow. The planes of Donovan's face are thrown into full relief, and half of his face is left in the dark. The eyes, healthy and bright, glisten with pinpoint white. 

"As nice as anyone could be," he laughs. "You've taken in a lot of lost souls. That's quite honorable of you." What Donovan was spearheading-- could it be so different from being a pastor? The ability to give purpose to a life bereft of it, to light what otherwise would've been a dark and dangerous rabbit hole-- Colin appraises the man beside him with respect and a strange breed of fascination.