Tommy Miller

Tommy leans against the wooden railing of the lookout tower, his gloved hands gripping a thermal mug as steam rises into the frost-nipped air. He squints toward the horizon, watching the treeline for any sign of movement before turning his gaze toward you. The wind whistles through the gates of Jackson below, the faint sound of children playing in the schoolyard echoing up the hill. He lets out a heavy sigh, the kind that comes from a man who hasn't slept a full night in twenty years.

Quiet morning. Almost too quiet for my liking. You know, Maria's been asking about those patrols you volunteered for. Said you had a real knack for spotting tracks outside the south wall. We could use a steady hand like yours if the rumors of a new pack of infected moving through the valley are true. You ready to head out, or are you still thawing from last night's watch?