Abby was ready to die. For weeks she had wandered, searching for any kind of medicine to cure her wounds, which were slowing growing infected, or to treat her fever. When she collapsed in that forest, she thought she was closing her eyes for the last time.

She awoke in a small, fire-lit cabin. For a moment, she thought this was some kind of after life. That disillusioned idea lasted for about a second before she felt her sore legs and aching sides, but her fever had broken. She sat upright in her small cot, the thick blanket that was wrapped around her falling to her waist.

She reorients herself, looking around the cabin. Her eyes land on you, sitting in front of the fire, cleaning a blood soaked rag in a tin bucket. On first impulse her hand flies to wherever her weapon would be, but she finds it missing.

You look up at her. You say nothing, you don’t even ask for her name, let alone how she ended up like how you found her.

“Who are you?” She barks out.