Henry McCullough's day began before the sun had even thought about cracking the horizon. He liked it that way. The world was soft, silent, and entirely his. His truck, an ancient Ford pickup with a rattling mower in its bed and the town's crest on the door, was the only vehicle on the road.
Most folks called him Hank. Some of the younger kids, who only saw him riding a mower or raking leaves, called him "the Grounds Guy," as if he were a feature of the landscape himself. He didn't mind. He was a part of the town, as permanent and expected as the lighthouse or the tides.
His first stop was the town park. It was a simple square of grass with a rusty swing set, a seesaw, and two picnic tables. In the pre-dawn gloom, it was a place of shadows and possibilities. He made a slow circuit, his booted feet crunching on the gravel path, his eyes scanning for litter left by teenagers the night before. He found a few beer cans, a chip bag. He deposited them in the sack he carried.
This was his ritual. The park. Then the town hall parking lot. Then the library's small garden. Then the war memorial. He was the keeper of Willow Creek's public face.
As the sky lightened from black to deep blue, he fired up the mower and began cutting the grass at the park. The roar of the engine was a satisfying noise that filled his head and left no room for thought. It was a good, honest sound. The smell of freshly cut grass rose around him, clean and sweet, cutting through the salt air.
He saw the town wake up around him. He saw the lights click on in houses. He saw Mr. Feng walking to the Quick-Stop, key in hand. He saw Sam Gunderson's truck rumble past, heading to the marina, Sam's face a grim mask in the dawn light. Hank gave a short, sharp wave. Sam didn't see it.
Hank didn't take it personally. Everyone was fighting their own battles. His was against weeds and neglect, and most days, he felt like he was winning.
By mid-morning, he was at the library, carefully edging the flower beds where Agnes Higgins's prize hydrangeas burst with impossible blue. Agnes herself came out, holding a mug of tea.
"They're looking good, Hank," she said, her voice still carrying the sorrow of a house that was too quiet.
"They do the work, Mrs. Higgins. I just try not to get in their way." He tipped his cap to her. He'd heard about Buster. Everyone had. "If you need anything… heavy lifted or… anything." He wasn't good with words, especially not about feelings.
"Thank you, Hank. I might take you up on that." She offered a small, sad smile and went back inside.
His next task was over at the cannery, or rather, the neglected patch of town land that bordered its massive fence. Weeds grew tall there, fed by the constant damp and the rich, questionable soil. It was a losing battle, but he fought it anyway.
As he worked, cutting back the thick knot of thistles and wild ivy, he noticed a smell. It was different from the usual cannery stink of processed fish and rust. This was that sweet smell again, the one he'd noticed a few times lately. It was stronger here, near the runoff drains from the cannery property.
He also noticed the webs. They were draped between the chain links of the fence and the tall weeds, thick and complex. They were the strangest spiderwebs he'd ever seen. The silk was thicker, almost like fine cord, and it had a weird, oily sheen to it, reflecting the light in rainbows. He'd have to mention it to old man Peterson, see if he knew what kind of spider made webs like that. Peterson knew everything about the local wildlife.
He was about to clear them away with his rake when he heard a voice behind him.
"McCullough."
He turned. It was Mark Keating, standing there in his clean polo shirt, looking out of place in the overgrown lot.
"Mr. Keating."
"The town might want to have this area cleared more regularly," Keating said, not as a suggestion, but as a quiet directive. "It looks… unkempt. We have corporate visitors sometimes. First impressions matter."
Hank looked at the weeds, then at the massive, rusting NCC fence behind them. The irony was almost funny.
"I do my rounds once a week, sir. Weeds grow fast."
"Perhaps we can increase the frequency," Keating said with a tight smile. "NCC might be willing to contribute to the town's beautification fund. To ensure standards are met."
It was an offer. It was also a threat. Let us pay for it, or we'll make sure someone else does.
"I'll talk to the mayor," Hank said neutrally.
"You do that." Keating gave a curt nod and walked back towards the NCC gatehouse, his shoes somehow avoiding the mud.
Hank watched him go. He looked back at the strange, glistening webs. He thought about the sweet smell. He thought about Keating's "beautification fund."
He didn't clear the webs away.
Instead, he finished his work and drove his truck to the bluff overlooking the sea. He turned off the engine and ate his lunch there—a ham sandwich and an apple—watching the water. It was the one view that never changed, that no corporation could tidy up or make demands about.
From up here, the town looked small and peaceful. He could see the NCC freighter, tiny as a toy boat. He could see the fishing boats heading out. He could see the lighthouse, soon to get its new coat of paint.
He finished his apple and tossed the core into the grass for the deer. He started his truck again, the engine coughing to life. There was still work to do. The war memorial needed weeding. The flagpole at town hall needed its rope untangled.
The spaces in between wouldn't tend to themselves. He was the keeper. And he knew, deep in his bones, that a town's truth wasn't found in its shiny new paint, but in its quiet, overlooked corners. And he intended to keep watching them.