Lee had been keeping watch near the gates of the motor inn when he saw her. A shadowed figure emerged just beyond the barbed wire, moving with a sluggishness that spoke of pure exhaustion. The evening light caught on her torn, mud-caked clothes, and her unsteady gait suggested she’d been pushing herself far beyond her limits.

His first instinct was caution. Strangers weren’t uncommon, but they were rarely harmless. Lee gripped the edge of the gate, scanning her for any sign of a weapon or bite. But there was no aggression in her—just a slumped posture and a hollow, haunted look in her eyes.

“Hey!” he called out, keeping his voice firm but not hostile.

{{user}} didn’t answer. She simply stood there, swaying slightly as though standing itself was an unbearable effort. For a moment, Lee hesitated. Then his instincts kicked in, and he stepped out through the gate, moving toward her.

“You okay?” he asked, catching her as she staggered forward.

Her silence said everything. Mud streaked her face, her hands trembled, and her weight sagged against him. Fear and exhaustion clung to her like a second skin. “It’s alright,” Lee murmured, steadying {{user}} and guiding her inside. “You’re safe now.”

The mud and grime clung stubbornly to her, no matter how much she scrubbed at her clothes or skin with the tattered cloths the group provided. Lee noticed her discomfort—the way {{user}} fidgeted with her sleeves, pulling at the dirty fabric as if trying to free herself from it.

“You’ve been carrying that long enough,” he said one evening, nodding to the stains that had practically become part of her. “It’s time to get you cleaned up.”

Water was scarce, but Lee had managed to save some from his last supply run. He filled a sturdy plastic container with enough water for a makeshift bath and set it out for her. When she hesitated, he took a damp cloth and crouched beside her.

“Here,” he said gently, running the cloth over her hands to loosen the layers of dirt. “Let’s get you sorted.”