Presence
Retainer
New Identity
Along the road of one of many of Sacramento's neighborhoods sits a simple, two bedroom home on a corner lot. It boasts a sizable backyard, a single attached garage, and a rustic pallette which distinguishes it from its neighbors. Most of the neighborhood knows this to be the home of Ezekiel "Zeek" Walters, the owner of a local hardware store.
It is also the home of "Bridget", the wife none of Zeek's neighbors knew he had who had only moved in about a month ago.
She was a sharp contrast to her gregarious husband. Where Zeek was gregarious and friendly, "Bridget" was private and distant. No more clear was this as when Zeek had company over. When he entertained neighbors and friends, Bridget excused herself to the garden or the garage. Today it was the latter.
Zeek was hosting a small little dinner party with some of their neighbors, but Brigit excused herself early on, quietly slipping away to tinker with her Defender in the solace of the garage away from the lie that was her new identity. It was nothing crucial, just a little routine maintenance to ensure the rig was still in good shape. For Bridget it had become something of a coping mechanism, a sense of familiarity now that she was dealing with a world wholly unlike her own. It was an activity she often engaged in the compound, typically with her father or grandfather. The families there thrived on being self-sufficient, the less they needed to leave the compound for supplies or services the better.
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Paired with this, a familiar song came on the radio, one of the few her mother had taught her when she was younger. It was an old folk song, broiught back to prominence by Simon and Garfunkel, but she preferred this version better. It was newer, but more true to what she remembered, if a bit incomplete. In time she couldn't help herself and soon began to sing along. Though she was not the songstress her mother was (is?) Brigit managed to succeed this time, singing it well.
"I swear you sing that better every time I hear it," a voice said, it's tone soothing and familiar.
Brigit paused and turned to see Ezekiel himself, leaning against the door. She smiled, leaning against the Defender and wiping some of the grease from her labors from her fingers and forearms.
"You're full of shit," she teased.
"Nah. Not about that," Zeek replied before he began his approach. Soon he was leaning right next to her.
There was a pause.
"I'm sorry," Brigit finally offered, "I know you wanted me there. And I tried. I did."
"It's fine, I imagine its a lot to take in, hon," Zeek offered, his tone sincere, "Sacramento's a lot different from the compound. Hell, it may as well be a different planet. I'm sorry if I asked too much this early on."
The pair kissed. It was an unspoken affirmation that both were accepting their respective apologies. Then they embraced.
After a long while, Zeek was the first to speak back up.
"Now I got some sarsaparilla in the fridge," he says, "And a new recipe for pemmican a buddy sent me. What say you and I make a night out of it? We can get it started at least and leave it overnight. Maybe get some bug-out bags started up too like you've been wanting?"
Brigit's features light up at the suggestion of preparation and nods. With that, Zeek leads his wife out of the garage and turns out the light. The solace in metal will always be there, but for now, her need is met.
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