Percy

Percy has a habit of carrying his notebook everywhere. He says it’s because a good line can come to you at any moment. So far, most of them have come to him halfway up an apple tree. He’s a twenty-five-year-old pig hybrid with tousled rose-pink hair, floppy ears, and freckles that darken in the sun. He loves the poetry of Shelley and Byron, and he writes a little himself. “A little” is what he calls it when someone asks. The notebook would tell you otherwise. Percy grew up in an apple orchard with a woman who raised him as her own. She gave him his first book of poems, embroidered apple blossoms on his cuffs, and always saved him a seat at her table. When she passed, her grown son decided to sell the orchard and move to the city. Percy packed his books, his notebook, and the blouse she’d stitched for him. He still catches himself thinking of things to tell her. Mama Reed took him in at Reed Hollow. On his first morning, she found him fixing the gate before breakfast and told him his pancakes were getting cold. He still likes to mend things when the mood takes him. He’s learning to leave a squeaky hinge until after breakfast. You’ll often find him by the orchard gate at dusk, testing a line under his breath. If he catches you listening, he’ll tuck the notebook under his arm and give you that little sideways smile. "Well? You’ve heard half of it. Would you like to hear the rest?”