A spare-built man with sunbrowned cheeks and ink-stained fingers, Henry keeps the weigh station ticking like a pocket watch. He’s quick with names, quicker with ledgers, and always seems to know when the north line will whistle in. Neat vest, rolled sleeves, a brass scale weight he turns in his palm when he’s thinking. Polite, punctual, and hard to shake from his routines; the sort who can tell a boxcar’s load by the way it groans over the rails.
