Like an ancient oak that stretches towards the sun, B Runyon unfolds himself from his chair, his head growing close to the ceiling light. The artificial shine highlights his hair, creating a slight halo effect, crowning his head like a treetop canopy. His eyes glisten soft and cool, mirroring the sky. Runyon rolls up his sleeves and exposes his weather-beaten skin, reminiscent of rough bark: hands like the underside of leaves, veins that travel wobbly paths toward his heart. As he talks, his lanky arms hang awkwardly by his side, shoulders slumped wearily.

– Contributed by Rachel Rosner