John Fry Cook
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Crescentview Resort

1- Sage

Crescentview Resort was a large, wooden structure with a grassy roof pitted with little puddles and the occasional wildflower. The state of the building matched the state of its hosts - pockmarked faces, greasy hair, with some infrequent, serendipitous moments of beauty.

John was one among his crowd in looks, pudgy, bearded, but he didn't speak much to the rest of the staff. Mostly he stuck to his little kitchen counter, serving mediocre lunches to varied guests. At home, John listened to old music and read and re-read trashy novels and whatever histories he could get his hands on, but at work he passed the time talking quietly to his dog Arlo, or, when he had the chance, to whatever patron came too near. He liked to speak to them, and he loved when they spoke back.

Mostly they were regulars - Ms. Harington from Bellevue, who used to bring her children until they grew too old and found obligations, Mr. and Mrs. Yang from who knows where, always quiet except in private, the Leodegranzes, one of the few families left in Port Angeles still wealthy and healthy enough to vacation. This last week though there'd been a new visitor - a sort of androgynous older woman whom the staff had taking to calling Sage, though she signed her papers with only an X.

John hadn't seen much of X, except in passing, but she'd always smiled and answered him with small courtesies. It was always during the quiet, misty mornings when X was on her way out with a backpack towards the Storm King trails, or during her dusk returns. He'd noticed her moving a bit slower today, looking a bit more ill, and he knew she'd be heading back towards whatever beacon she came from very soon. She'd been here six days already, and certainly she couldn't stay much longer.