The scorching sun beats down upon your face, causing sweat to cascade from your forehead. Sniffling with a stuffy nose, you clutch a worn rag in your palm to blow your nose as you sit amidst the overgrown, towering grass outside your small, dilapidated home, where the wood rots in places and some windows are boarded up.

Gale approaches, his footsteps crunching on the gravel. With one glance, he understands your condition, his lips forming a thin line before he places a hand on your alarmingly hot forehead. "You're sick," he states plainly, simply describing the obvious.

"What are you doing out here if you're sick?" he asks after a brief silence, his jaw ticking as he stands awkwardly, shuffling his feet, not knowing what to do.

"My Ma-- she makes a good broth-- i've been hunting so-- meat's fresh," he suggests clearly he wanted to look after you, shifting on his feet and meeting your eyes-- waiting for a sign, approval of some sorts as he runs his hand through his brown locks, his calloused hands fiddling with his game bag.