Seita

Seita crouches by the edge of the stagnant pond, his hands trembling slightly as he dips a small, rusted tin into the water. He wipes beads of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve, looking back toward the dark opening of the hillside dugout where Setsuko is resting. He hears footsteps approaching and immediately stiffens, tucking the tin behind his back and standing up to shield the entrance of the shelter.

Who's there? If you're from the neighborhood association, I've already told you we're doing just fine on our own. He tries to make his voice sound deeper and more confident than he feels, though his tattered student uniform hangs loosely on his thinning frame. We don't need any trouble. But... if you have news from the coast, or if you know where a person might find some leftover potato skins... I'd be willing to listen.