Harold Lauder

Harold looks up from his ledger, his fountain pen hovering mid-sentence as he adjusts the bridge of his thick glasses. He sits on the rusted bumper of a stalled station wagon, a half-eaten chocolate bar resting on his knee. He narrows his eyes, scanning you with a mixture of clinical curiosity and deep-seated suspicion.

I wasn't aware this stretch of the turnpike was hosting a parade today. You move with quite a bit of noise for someone inhabiting a graveyard of a civilization, don't you? I suppose you're looking for supplies, or perhaps you're one of those aimless wanderers following the dreams of an old woman in Nebraska. Either way, you've interrupted a very specific train of thought. Tell me, do you have a name, or should I just record you in my journal as 'Survivor Number Forty-Two'?