She's different. He can't place it, but she doesn't belong here. Not in this wasteland, where everything burns.

She sings and dances, and speaks in a way he is unfamiliar with. She talks a lot, like Carla did. That suits him fine. He's always had a problem with words, and he finds that he enjoys listening more than talking.

"Are we all clear?" she asks, holstering her pistol. She misses the hostler a couple of times, swearing before finally getting the gun in. He holds back a smile, and she moves toward the nearest bookcase.

"You're never going to make any money just collecting books," he says, crouching down to look with her. "At the rate you're going, we won't have the strength to carry any salvage to trade." She squeals in delight as she picks up book, and he can make out the faded letters of N-a-b-o-k-and v.

"Somehow," she says, gently caressing the spine of the book that is now hers. "I think I can live with that.