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A white labcoated Tristan Farnon meandered outside the shelter and lit a cigarette, the familiar scent and flavor of smoke a comfort for one so far from home. If he shut his eyes, he could nearly imagine himself back at Skeldale House, with its tiny surgery and miniature waiting room and Mrs. Hall preparing lunch for the Farnon brothers plus associate. Practically quaint when compared with Haurvatatapos;s futuristic (to him) shelter and hospital. He didnapos;t mind the village that much, actually. He had a job, which provided him room and board, and the village had interesting people. And no farm animals meant he didnapos;t need to assist in difficult births in the middle of the night in some godforsaken barn.

Granted, he hadnapos;t gone for a visit to the stables yet.

He took another drag from his cig, settling in to enjoy the rest of the morning. Widget wandered outdoors not long afterwards, flopping to the pavement at Tristanapos;s side and, as always, refusing to budge.

[ooc: open for any shelter business or passersby; slowtime is love]
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