Franklin McCollum's hands are perpetually stained with ink, a testament to his dedication to his craft. Every line must be perfectly aligned, every character crisply rendered. He finds solace in the rhythm of the press, the whirring gears and clanking plates a symphony to his ears. His workspace is an oasis of order, each tool meticulously placed, ready for its purpose. The slightest imperfection is unacceptable, a blemish on a canvas he strives to make perfect. He carries this same meticulousness into all aspects of his life, from the way he tends to his garden, ensuring each plant thrives under his watchful eye, to the intricate models he builds in his spare time. His family, Ruth and Bernard, marvel at his patience and focus, traits they admire deeply.