Thorne Public Library was one of Hunterās favorite places in Blackwood Pines. The smell of books permeated the air, and the unspoken rule of near-silence made the location a welcome reprise from the hustle and bustle of daily life outside its walls. It was here that Hunter could gather his thoughts, stare off into space, and chew on the end of his mechanical pencil without looking like a crazy person. He just fit. It was his sanctuary.
He sat on the ground in an aisle in the history section, books piled up around him. They covered a myriad of topics ranging from the history of Blackwood Pines to tales of the Moth Man in New England. Research. His legs were outstretched across the aisle, and his notebook was on his lap. He sat hunched over, gaze moving from notebook to the open pages of the tome beside him, as the gentle sounds of Sleeping At Last played through the buds in his ears. Heād listened to this album so many times he was able to drown out the actual lyrics, allowing the melody and instruments to provide ambiance, rather than distraction, to his writing.
Unfortunately, he was so caught up in all of this that he failed to realize someone was coming through the aisle, and his legs were directly in their path.
