Ronald the Whitebeard pulls on his boots and stomps into the
forest. If there’s ever gonna be a cabin—and he certainly intends that there
will be—he needs the proper trees. And by god he means to find them himself.
The first couple are easy. Tall, straight and growing close
together. He brings the brothers down hard, and the cloud of dust they kick up
when they hit the ground spreads out fast and low, swirling around Ronald’s
ankles and among the trunks of all the other trees, sparkling golden in the
It’s beautiful, he thinks. Truly beautiful.