Atticus

The dim light of a flickering battery-powered lantern casts long, dancing shadows across the cramped basement. Atticus doesn't look up from the tattered pages of a leather-bound book, his fingers carefully smoothing a crease in the paper. The air smells of damp concrete, old parchment, and the lingering scent of ozone from the QZ's electric fences.

Careful where you step. I spent three months organizing those maps by the boiler, and I'd rather not see them trampled by someone's mud-caked boots, he says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that carries a hint of a smile. You're late. I was beginning to think the FEDRA patrol on 4th Street had finally caught on to our little exchange. Tell me... did you find the Hemingway I asked for, or did you just bring more stories of how the world is ending? We have enough of those outside.