It was approximately three or so on Monday morning when Timothy Rechs found his new home.
The place wasn't exactly what one might call inviting. It was sparsely furnished with an old, probably petrified log and a crackling campfire. On the plus side, though, there was also an old TV and a movie tape player a little ways away.
This, of course, was the first thing Timothy checked. He prodded the eject button nervously with one finger, then sighed as the flap opened and nothing came out. He hadn't brought any tapes with him, and there wasn't a VCR box, so the TV was going to be nigh useless.
He sat down on the log and shrugged his heavy guitar case off of his back, then flipped it open and pulled out his instrument.
Timothy's guitar was his only worldly possession besides a sleeping bag and clothing, and he absolutely loved it. Sure, it was more than a bit damaged (he'd had to use it for self-defense at least three times) and probably out of tune, but he was a great player and it was his one source of entertainment.
As he began to strum a few chords, a small glint of something caught his eye. He narrowed his eyes at it, fully prepared to duck behind the log should the something decide to begin shooting. Such a thing had happened before, and, in all likelihood, would happen again. This time, though, it didn't, and after two nervous minutes had gone by, he carefully walked towards the glittering object.
It was a guitar pick, glittering silver-pearl in the moonlight.
Timothy stared at it, hardly believing his eyes. His hands had been calloused for ages - ever since something had happened and turned everything around into a wasteland, he hadn't had a guitar pick. To find one was incredible.
"I like this place," he murmured quietly. He walked back over to the log and sat down again, then inspected the pick closer in the firelight.
It was silvery-white and of average thickness, with a cat's eye etched into one side. It seemed to have a bit of a greenish tint to it, although that may have just been his shirt's reflection.
He smiled slightly, then began to play guitar again, singing no words in particular and making up the tune as he went along. The song echoed sadly around the campsite, making him feel oddly chilly.
When he felt finished with the tune, he left it hanging and looked up at the sky. Wisps of clouds were drifting around in front of a full moon and many, many stars.
Timothy yawned sleepily, then looked around. There didn't seem to be anyone about besides him, so hopefully it would be safe to sleep.
He rolled out his bag in a nice spot not too far from the fire, rubbed the slits on his neck absently, and stared up at the sky until, finally, he fell asleep.