He had three scars over his right eye, short, little, the length of paper clips or staples, which gave him a criminal look, or one of property, like the scars were quantity markers, and he was number three.
If anything, the scars alluded to a troubled past or an unfortunate childhood. And he found that nearly everyone he encountered worried that whatever had caused the scars was not over yet.
He’d tell the true story to someone one day. That was sort of a dream, or a fantasy. Meeting someone trustworthy enough. It was hard to hitchhike with those scars, he found. They looked fresh in the open sun. People had seen too many movies, and he looked like a cut up Terminator, except not as well fed.