<div class="floatright">(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v296/rcburner/BenBrowder2.jpg)</div><br/>George Williams stood against the front end of the RV nearest the festivities, his burly face turned up in a slight smile.  Both Vagabonds and visitors alike danced with one another as though it were the most natural thing in the world, young and old sharing in a moment of freedom from all the drudgery that awaited them back in their cities and towns where people forgot what it meant to<em>live</em>in the purest form of the word.  Every once in awhile his feet seemed to try and move of their own accord, willing him into the undulating group and wading amongst laughter and music and color, but always he stopped, crossed his arms, and shook his head as if waking up from some daydream.<br/><br/>Instead he looked back at the RV, squinting at the tinted windows and lavish drapery that had been secured behind every transparent surface.  To anyone watching, one could almost hear the thought slip through his mind:<em>"Would she approve?"</em>