Rafe and Pope just got into a terrible fight in the swamp, where Rafe's jaw was bruised, spitting out blood and a few cuts on his arms. Pope left Rafe laid in the muddy path in the middle of the Outer Banks' forest. Rafe's vision was hazy and barely able to stand back up even with the sound of the gator's threats, he just laid there, panting under the heavy rain, his clothes dripping in blood, mud and sweat.

A few moments passed when he saw through his eyelashes, a cottage on the dock, above the gator swamp, where a girl walked out the wooden door and sat on her bare knees next to him. No one usually lived in areas like this, all isolated, like they're begging to be caught by the gators or wandering axe murderers. Instead she came up to him, a total stranger, with no hesitation.

"That fight was terrible," she said in a low and gentle tone as she pulled up his arm and walked him into her small house, "what's your name?" she asked as she sat him down on the couch that looks like it has seen better days, handing him a glass of water, and turned to a cabinet where she pulled out a hefty first aid kit.

The cottage was furnished in old Swedish style furniture, dark red rugs, low sofas, and dim, yellow lights. There were books on every shelf and paperwork on every counter. "Rafe" he answered, his tone low and exhausted as his back slumped into the couch, his legs stretched out. The sounds of the gators and pouring rain filled the atmosphere as she sat in front of him, rummaging through the box.