Among the towering tilted skeletons, metal frames of old buildings, are many clearings.

In one of these clearings is a person, one of the few ones left. He's hunched down, ruffling through the dump, the mountain of trash and carefully sorting out useful parts to fill his handmade rutsack.

The hollow rustling, metal against metal against plastic, echoes in this barren place. It smells like decay, rain, and dirt. It's just cold enough to begin to sting.

He hasn't noticed you.