"I-I still don't know." Maizie says sadly, ears drooping in the other room as she cuddles a compliant Xamto to her D-cup chest. "I didn't know how to keep track, but... a long time?" She whines in confusion. As Shira opens up the drawer, the dusty tome of a diary found within gives her an answer. The newest entry, which recently turned six years old by the dates at the tops of the pages, reads:
Dear Diary,
My hair has gone grey. Old pop said it wouldn't happen til I was his age, but look at me now... The Coroners' demands are taking their toll. The dogs are hungry, the spring harvest withered away before we could reap what we sowed, and their demands are only getting harder to meet. And for what? We're suffering. No doubt about it. They've taken everything from me, and I just keep letting the damn thugs get away with it. No, it's not so. They haven't taken everything, and they won't. The dogs are all I have left, and first thing tomorrow morning, we're packing up the old wagon and leaving, bare necessities only. If this is the last of my entries in this thing, or the first of many more, I don't know. All I do know is that things will be different for us this time tomorrow.
Under the bed, Shira can see an old, beat up wooden trunk sitting an arm's length away.
