Old Wilks places his bony hand on my shoulder and a cascade of fiery chariots flash across his eyes. It's times like this I tell him I believe that nature will prevail without an intermediary. Wilks to me has always had the appearance of someone who has come out of a dream, absentmindedly wandered to a closed door, opened it, stepped into a different world and decided to stay. Why he would choose to stay is what I can't fathom.
The first time I met the old man, I noticed he seemed to give off the faint odor of hickory, a smell that after awhile warmed my heart.
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