He bends down to look at her, putting his hand on his knees. She’s young, maybe about his age, with light hair and suspicious eyes. An unfamiliar face, he thinks, though that doesn’t mean much; he doesn’t know most of the people here in Sweetwater.

“No, I haven’t,” he responds, voice equally low. He’s a little surprised by how raspy he sounds, as though he’d swallowed a mouthful of sawdust before talking. “And I assume — if I’m not presuming too much, by assuming, of course — that you haven’t either? Otherwise you wouldn’t be asking.”

With a sigh, he lowers himself down to a sitting position. He should be on his guard out here in the open, he knows that, but he’s also so tired. The mannequins have begun to seem less and less frightening to him as time goes on, though he admittedly hasn’t seen one face-to-face in a while. Maybe he should just…lie down and let them come.

“How long have you been here for?” He gestures at her little hiding spot.