He sat on the edge of his cot looking tired, angry and agitated, like a tea kettle at full boil about to blow its top. He was dressed in a forget-me-not multi colored Hawaiian shirt. His faded blue jeans were held fast by a wide leather belt, armed with a buckle the size of a mature snapping turtle shell. His boots were from the West, the gold chains around his thick neck screamed Miami, which is where he was headed before he was waved off I-95 earlier that day. Now he stewed with the rest of us on top of a hill overlooking Richmond.
