Carl rose before Dawn, since he really didn't sleep anyways. Since he came back he found it harder and harder to pretend to rest with each passing day. Hell, he had to remind himself how many years it had been since he actually slept, but still he tried to pretend to rest for routine/appearances sake. After all, it's not like there was an instruction book for being half dead.

He donned his best merchant gear (a set of finer clothes he wore on his trade route between PL and Dead Town) and in the light from his oil lamp he noticed one of the elbows needed patching. His old joints freaked and clicked from the cool and moist morning air as he reached for a sewing kit. After patching up the tear in the elbow he made his way to the trap door that lead down into his cellar.

The hinge freaked a little and he made a mental note to oil it up when he came home for this trip. As he descended he thought about how funny it was that this was his life now. He did the things he used to consider hobbies to keep himself busy, and his new hobby had become trying to fit in with the regular "fully alive" folk. He didn't have many friends, and that was okay, after losing his life (literally) and everyone he knew and loved having been dead for years, the seclusion suited him just fine for the day to day.

His left foot hit the plank board flooring he had custom built for his cellar, and he lit the oil lantern at the bottom of the stairs. After seeing that the flame was steady and strong he took the light off of its nail hanger and moved to the other side of the cellar where he had gathered his trading supplies for this weeks trip. Box by box he carried it all upstairs. Real meat jerky (venison, turkey) that he had smoked and cured and seasoned himself, dozens of fine pelts and leather pieces, trinkets and odds and ends, weapons and tools he had smelted from scrap iron and steel and polished and sharpened. Various articles of clothing including leather belts and shoes.

By the time his cart was loaded up and ready to go the morning sun had begun to dry the thick forest dew. The birds and insects and small rodent creatures were all calling to each other throughout the forest. Sometimes it was easy to forget the world was a wasteland now. And he clung to these fleeting moments like any of them maybe his last.

He grabbed a handful of jerky and a water bottle from his trip pack and climbed onto the seat of his wagon. Flanders, his horse, was chewing some moist grass as Carl pulled the leads. Flanders was an old soul and new the trade route by heart. 3 miles to PL, a stop there for 3 days. Then a half a day trip to a dead Town, a day stop there, and then back home. Once a month, for the foreseeable future.

As the duo was clearing the forest edge Carl patted his vest pocket to make sure he had packed the bone dice set for Billy. A thank you gift for a boy who was forced to be much older than he was. Last time Carl was in PL, Billy had stood up for him in front of a group of young bullies at the refugee house. 

Carl smiled broadly when he felt the dice in his vest pocket. He had every intention of making this a good trip to the city this month.