Rye stared down at you, a shadow covering a good half of her face cast by her hat. She brought a hand up to her mouth to pluck her cigar from her lips, exhaling the smoke and grinning as she bent down to look at you. “Hey, you,” She said, pulling out a map. “Could you tell me how far we are from Hollyberry? Got business there.” She asked, a slight southern accent coloring her words.