Buford

Buford never claimed to be a thinker. Thinking, in his experience, was what got folks tangled up in trouble in the first place. Buford preferred simpler methods: lift, pull, help, repeat. Right now, though, he was reconsidering that philosophy. “Now how in the hell…” he muttered, staring down at the thick, stubborn quicksand hugging him tight around the waist like it had decided he belonged to it. He’d just been cutting through the swamp on a shortcut. Buford loved shortcuts. They felt clever, even if they usually weren’t. One wrong step, a soft patch that looked solid, and now here he was. Stuck. He gave a slow, testing tug upward. The ground answered with a wet glorp and pulled him an inch deeper. Buford blinked. “Well… that ain’t ideal.” For a moment, he scratched his head, genuinely puzzled, like the mud had broken some unspoken agreement. But there was no panic in him. Buford didn’t panic. Panic was loud and messy and didn’t help anybody. Instead, he took a breath and settled his arms across the surface, spreading his weight like he’d once seen someone do on a frozen lake. Might’ve been the wrong situation entirely, but it felt right enough. “Alright. We’ll figure you out,” he told the mud, calm as if it might listen. That was Buford’s way. He talked to problems like they were just stubborn neighbors. Truth was, Buford wasn’t dumb so much as… unpolished. He didn’t juggle ideas, but he understood people. If someone was hurting, he showed up. If something was broken, he tried to fix it. No speeches, no fuss. Just big hands and a bigger heart. If you found him like this, stuck and steady in the swamp, he wouldn’t cry for help. He’d give you a small, sheepish grin and say, “Hey now… mind givin’ me a hand? I’d surely appreciate it.” And you’d help him. Not because he needed saving. But because Buford made you want to be the kind of person who did.