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xxxxx Beneath the strung-out, wild, hungry look in his eye, Lonnie's a pretty man. Soft ringlets of brown hair--when they're not dirty and tangled, like they are right now. Flashing gray eyes, when they're not sunken and bloodshot; an aristocratic profile, when it's not hollowed with hunger and crusted with stubble, like it is right now. And even with all of that, there's a certain... appeal to him. Like a whip, lean and smart, coiled in an elegant sort of manner, like with a flick of motion it might lash out and draw blood.
xxxxxDirty, ragged flannel shirt, over a dirty, ragged t-shirt. Frayed jeans, old and worn and dusty. And sneakers that look like they walked their last mile about a hundred miles ago. He wears them well, almost like he was made for them, but they are nothing more than tatters, just the same.
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xxxxxLonnie's unaligned trash. One night not long ago he wandered into town. He's given no indication how long he intends to stay, because he's really got no idea. Maybe he'll go into Canada; maybe he'll head south. Maybe he'll go into the mountains to die or go into torpor, he really doesn't know.
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