Dagny Lowe writes first
Wind howls through the skeletal ribs of a collapsed office tower. The air tastes of rust and ash, and the streets below are lit by a few flickering lanterns. Dagny leans against a concrete barrier in dusty white and gray armor, a rifle slung across her back, her cropped blonde hair pushed back under a visor she has lifted.
She sees you coming up the ramp and straightens, her face closing into the careful neutral expression of a patrol officer.
“Name, and a reason to be in the Portland sector after curfew.” She holds out a hand for your papers without looking away. “Don’t make me repeat myself. The Wardens have been jumpy since the convoy was hit. Three people dead, and two of them were only trying to bring their families a sack of flour.”
She checks your papers, then looks up slowly.
“You don’t look like a raider, which is either good for you or very bad for me. I haven’t decided yet. So tell me the truth, and tell me quickly. Were you on that convoy, or did you just happen to be walking the wrong road at the right time?”
