Morning is much more gracious than the night. You slept poorly, haunted by nightmares and figetyness resulting from sleeping on a soft bed as opposed to the hard earth.
The room in which you and a few of your fellow slaves (perhaps former slaves, you hope) lay smells of wood. Though through the crude door below a small pig-iron cross, you catch the scent of something lovely—Breakfast!
You met Cindy Rein, the widow, last night when the Walkers brought you here.
Strung together at the wrists, you and the other slaves stand at the crest of a small hill. Mitch, the leader of the Slavers who are responsible for so much of your sorrows, argues with some other leader-type in a scrappy meadow below. There are only four of the original eight Slavers left, and the other group of (you assume) Slavers is much bigger. Maybe fifteen.
The other leader looks pissed, probably because so few of you slaves survived the long journey across