Each man is the architect of his own fate. [Arrival - OTA]
Tires crunched on gravel as a red-and-white Ford pickup rolled to a stop in the driveway of Fortes, engine purring. After a pause the purr cut off and the driver's-side door swung open. The young man who climbed out was tall and broad-shouldered, his long black hair held back by a red bandanna. He surveyed the house before him with a coolly impressed look for a moment, then shut the truck door firmly and retrieved a battered Army-surplus duffel bag and a bright red toolkit from the truckbed.
Thus armed, he turned and approached the front door of the house. His tread on the gravel drive was noticeably uneven, the right step falling heavier than the left -- and the faint glint of silver visible through the torn right knee of his jeans hinted at the reason for that. Still, his stride was determined and the look on his face held no uncertainty; he gave the impression of a man arriving exactly where he was meant to be.
Thus armed, he turned and approached the front door of the house. His tread on the gravel drive was noticeably uneven, the right step falling heavier than the left -- and the faint glint of silver visible through the torn right knee of his jeans hinted at the reason for that. Still, his stride was determined and the look on his face held no uncertainty; he gave the impression of a man arriving exactly where he was meant to be.