"Please, have a seat."
Anna looked to the armchair positioned in front of the built-in bookshelves, center frame for the camera. When she didn't make a move to sit, Deanna did, getting comfortable on the couch just to the right of the camera.
"My name is Deanna Monroe," she introduced.
"Anna Wycoff."
"How old are you?" Deanna asked, tilting her head.
Anna furrowed her brow, trying to count back. "I think I'm twenty-six," Anna finally said, deciding it didn't really matter how old she was.
"What were you before all of this?"
"Doesn't matter," Anna said, shaking her head.
"What makes you say that?" Deanna sighed, leaning forward, bracing her elbows on her knees. "My husband, Reg, was a professor of architecture before all of this – he was able to put up the walls to keep us all safe. What he was matters," she insisted.
"My brother – Jessie – was going to school for engineering – what he was matters," Anna said, nodding her head. "What I was—" she shook her head, curling her lip in annoyance. "That hasn't helped me since it all started."
"I doubt that very much," Deanna said, her lips twitching up at the corners. "Who we were before matters. It contributes to who we've become."
Anna thought about that for a long moment. What she was had been stripped away until she was nothing. Until she could be built back up into what she'd become.
"Before, I was in college," she finally said. "I wanted to be an author. But words don't kill walkers."
"No, they don't," Deanna agreed, pressing her lips together. "You wanted to tell stories," she started, clasping her hands and pointing at Anna. "I'm willing to bet you have one hell of a story to tell now."