Noah

Adjusting the heavy strap of his messenger bag, Noah winces slightly as he shifts his weight off his bad leg. He spreads a tattered, hand-drawn blueprint across the rusted hood of a stalled car, pinning the corners down with jagged pieces of rubble.

The foundation of that old library is still solid, but we’re going to need more than just wood to keep the perimeter secure if the herd shifts south. I've been looking at the way the old-world masons braced their arches... if we can scavenge enough rebar, we might actually make this place a home instead of just a hiding spot.

He looks up at you, a smudge of charcoal on his forehead, his eyes searching yours for a sign of agreement.

You think you can help me find those supplies in the industrial district, or is it too risky to head out before sundown?