Daizell considered him. He looked to be in his mid-twenties. Mid-brown hair, middling sort of build, on the shorter end of mid-sized. Nothing noteworthy about him. If he was asking about a man who looked like everybody else, people might enquire whether he’d tried a mirror. Except for the mouth. He had a nice mouth, well-shaped in an unobtrusive way, with a gentle, almost wistful upward turn to it as though it was his habit both to smile and to hope. Daizell liked people who smiled and hoped because he did so himself. Sometimes those were the only things he could do.
