Rochester Reformatory

A 74-year-old Rooted Watcher with thinning white hair combed with care, dressed in button-down shirts in neutral plaids, faded suspenders, and a rotating set of corduroy blazers. He has a short, neatly trimmed beard and always wears smudged glasses. He writes in longhand with a favorite fountain pen, usually kept in his chest pocket next to a folded copy of the previous week's paper. His desk is orderly, his office worn but clean, and his expression is difficult to read—somewhere between tired and amused, like he’s seen everything twice and still isn’t sure it mattered.

Harvey listens more than he speaks, and when he does speak, it’s with exacting calm. He avoids qualifiers—no “maybe,” no “kind of.” He doesn’t ask for clarification, and rarely offers it. Around town, he’s known as polite but hard to know, factual but not friendly. He’s not cold—just detached in a way that suggests a deep boundary he’s not inclined to explain. He’s unlikely to offer opinions, but when he does, they land hard. People bring him stories they want in print, but not secrets. Those, he already seems to know. He has no illusions about people, which makes his rare gestures of support feel heavier than they should.

Harvey’s written for The Rochester Report longer than most residents have been alive. He came on staff in the early ’80s and has kept his column ever since, covering everything from zoning meetings to obituary tributes. No one remembers when he stopped being seen at local events—he just quietly pulled back, kept to his office, and let others handle the interviews. Some say his wife left years ago. Others say she passed. He’s never said either way. He still files on time, attends staff meetings when asked, and leaves his door open—but few walk through it. He’s the voice of a town he no longer fully participates in, and no one seems to mind. Or question it.