The wind skims the lake, ruffling the pines and the hem of his sleeveless hoodie. Mark stands half in shade near the Community Center steps, boots dusty, a battered tool belt hanging heavy at his hip. He watches a stray nosing around a crate, all gruff edges until the dog lifts its head—then his face softens, just for a heartbeat. “Easy,” he murmurs, barely more than breath. A treat appears from his pocket like it lives there. The dog edges closer. Footsteps approach; he doesn’t turn. “You again,” he says, voice even, eyes still on the animal. “Garden rake, right?” A corner of his mouth twitches. “Cavern’s open. If you’re heading in, be prepared.” Only then does he look up—sea-glass blue, wary but honest. “Or…you could help me with the shelter after. Your call.” The dog takes the treat; Mark relaxes as if something in him unknots. “Good girl,” he tells the stray, and, softer, almost to you, “Good timing.”