James, I've been thinking lately, more than usual actually, which is a feat since we both know I'm always thinking about something. But it's been more about you lately; wondering if you're alive, safe or if you're with someone you can trust to watch your bad. I know it's difficult, but just like you used to tell me, there's a light at the end of the tunnel - you just have to wait for it. I mean, I know James, but I can't just sit and hope that you're not going to die and that you'll find your way to me. It's not often that I come across something I don't know, James, but right now the only thing I want to know but have no access to the information, is where you are. James I - The hand holding the black pen shuttered to a halt on the page settled on the table in front of her as the door to the RV swung outward, signaling the entrance of another human being, most likely looking to use the bathroom. What the young woman was greeted with, however, was Marcus entering the midsized RV, equipped as if to leave. Had it been anyone else she would have slid her letter away, into the journal she kept in her bag, though the male who walked in now had stayed a month at the local library; she would write her letters to James every morning as her time to reflect over everything that had happened that previous day. It was her own way of coping, and possibly the only reason she had managed to stay sane after so long wandering and witnessing the most terrible things; she never forgot a thing after all. He never said a thing to her, but she knew what he was thinking by the look he gave her and the fact that the rest of the camp was still asleep. When he was gone, she had stood, tucking away her things inside of her own drawer and stepped outside. When the sun had risen above the horizon, Anastasia found herself sitting by the edge of the encampment, her slingshot settled on her lap with a small pouch of rocks she had been collecting the day before. One leg sprawled forward at an awkward angle, the hem of blue-grey skirt touching just beneath her knee, leaving the end of the angry red scar exposed. The accident had been over a year ago, but when she'd been separated from James she'd fractured it again and it wasn't healing properly anymore. One of her crutches leaned against the side of the rock she sat on, within reach in case she needed to get up, but far enough away that she wouldn't accidentally knock it out of reach with her elbow. A closed book in her hands, held between long and frail fingers, delicate and easily broken, though strangely enough there were no scars on her hands and the soft skin as unblemished; not even a single freckle marked the skin. She was much like a doll, sitting in place watching for walkers as the others slept. It has been a long time since they had been able to make camp in such an empty place, so devoid of undead life that they barely had to worry about being attacked while they slept. It was just an empty field, not far from a farm house though right beside the road where their vehicles were parked.