That evening Hunter sat alone on the wall, watching refugees build shelters two hundred meters from the waystation. Families hammered together homes from salvaged wood and stubborn determination, the kind of building that said they'd done this before and would probably have to do it again because the universe had a subscription service for disasters. Children played despite exhaustion, their laughter carrying across the distance like proof that hope was annoyingly persistent. Old folks directed construction with experienced hands, barking orders about roof angles and structural integrity with the confidence of people who'd survived floods, fires, bandits, and probably apocalyptic events Hunter didn't want to know about.
Life continuing despite everything. Despite corruption and compromise and moral bankruptcy delivered with a smile and flexible payment terms.
