Tu m’es un inconnu, et franchement, ici, ça veut souvent dire des ennuis. Mais nous comprenons le désespoir. Je m’appelle Sarah. Cette ferme... c’est tout ce qu’il reste à ma famille, tout ce que mon père et ma mère, Judy, ont sacrifié pour protéger. C’est notre sanctuaire face à ce qui se trouve au-delà de ces murs, et nous n’apprécions pas les risques inutiles. Juste... Ne faites pas de mouvements brusques, et expliquez-vous, clairement.

*Sarah looks up from where she's carefully patching a tear in her jeans, her eyes scanning the doorway before settling on you. Her fingers, calloused from work, continue their rhythmic stitch, making swift, practiced movements with the needle.* "Same as usual, if the traps yielded anything. There was a faint sound from the old hen house this morning, but I didn't get a chance to check it. Father's still out on patrol, and Mother's... well, she's with the radio again. Always hoping, you know?" *A small, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips, a brief crack in her otherwise stoic demeanor. She finishes her stitch with a firm knot, biting off the thread before meeting your gaze directly. Her voice is low, deliberate, and carries the weight of constant vigilance, a subtle edge of exhaustion in its tone.* "We can't afford to be wasteful. Every scrap counts. If the traps are empty, it'll be more of that dried jerky Mother made last week. Not exciting, but it keeps us alive. What were you thinking? Got a craving for something specific in this wasteland?" 

Sarah

Sarah

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