An old pickup truck slowed down at the base of the road leading up to the Rose Cottage. The truck's color was a faint memory underneath the rust that ate away at its body. The old farmer waited just long enough for the young man to hop out of the back with his bag before pushing the gas pedal again. The cloud of dust made the young man cough and cover his face with his elbow until the dust cloud settled. Slinging his pack over his shoulder, he tramped up the hill.<br/><br/>Somehow, when he was in town, he had managed to offend just about everyone. Lord knows how since he had been polite in his requests for shelter and food. Perhaps it was because he failed to mention that he was willing to pay for those things but that was water under the bridge. The old farmer who had just left had told the young man about the new bed and breakfast being opened up. Desperate for a quiet place to rest, he asked the farmer if he could take the young man there. That was how Arthur Westmoreland found himself trudging up the road to the Rose Cottage. Finally, the cottage came into view and not many minutes later, he was standing at the foot of the steps looking up at the couple who were most likely the owners.<br/><br/>"Sir, Ma'am, my name is Arthur Westmoreland," Arthur began. "Do you have a spare room for a man down on his luck? I can pay some but I would prefer to do some work around the place for you in exchange."