The Wasteland

Something just about everybody tries to find time to do is go to the exchanges every so often. See what's been found, and who's willing to trade for what.

Rebecca has a battered bag slung over her shoulder, and is poking through a box of highly miscellaneous objects.

Judging by her expression, she's not finding much of use.

Today, Rebecca told herself, she was going to go to the Wasteland for a drink come evening. (Early evening. Dusk's dangerous; nighttime's more so.) This is maybe one part PR, one part socializing impulse, and one part a fervent desire to get the hell out of these same few buildings, even just to an only marginally less familiar building.

One of the downsides of the Shelter is that it involves lots of people living in relatively close quarters. And when couples decide to break up messily, and share their drama with everyone else, and flounce off or weep and wail in corners instead of doing their fair share of chores -- well, it's been a long few days.

So it's definitely time for a drink, because otherwise Rebecca's going to start snapping at folks more than even they deserve, and Jessie and Neal deserve a whole lot of snapping right now.

And then, of course, it started to rain.

Hell with that, she decides; she's going anyway.

Little rain never killed anyone. Zombies (etc, etc) are good at putting that kind of thing into perspective.