402

You check the time—10:15 am.

You peek through the window and spot a man at the front door. He stands perfectly straight like he's at attention in a military formation, but he looks far from being fresh out of service. His hair is shaggy and unkempt, he wears a bushy, untrimmed beard, and his clothes are a dull and faded blue button-down shirt and blue jeans, with a braided leather belt and brass buckle of someone named Comet Joe. Slung over one shoulder, he's carrying a backpack, and he's holding a gym bag.

The man leans forward, knocks, and tilts his head to look through the narrow slivers of glass decorating your front door. You unlock and open the door, keeping your body braced against it with the security chain still latched. "Hello?" you say to the man, more a question than greeting.

"Are you Luth?" he asks in a gravelly voice. "I'm Woody, Jaime's cousin." Even at a short distance away, the man has a strong body odor radiating from him.

"Yes, but Jaime said his cousin Moses—"

"Dang it, I told him not to call me that!" Woody says. His cheeks flush with anger, and he stomps his foot.

"Well, come in." You step aside, and he walks in with a brisk, determined motion.

Woody crosses farther into the room and scans from ceiling to floor, then left to right. "Okay, I see. You got your supplies all in one location, no damage to your home, and you're locked up in here tighter than a frog's butt. No way a looter or the infected is getting in here. Can't go wrong with a metal door. I like the alarms on the points of entry. I see you have a trap set should the front door get breached. The camera monitors are a fine addition to your overall security. You even got electricity. Seems out in other places 'round here. All that said, I'm real glad to be here."

Woody places his bags down by the sofa and takes out a wrapped sandwich from inside the gym bag. "Do you want a baloney and pepperjack sandwich?"