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RUTH JABLONSKI
Posted: Mar 5 2012, 06:00 PM


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It was well into the late afternoon when Ruth began to dig. The sun was dipping below the line of trees in the distance, causing a welcomed drop in temperature. Dirt, dust, sweat, and the faintest splatters of blood (nothing more than tiny, barely perceptible pink droplets) stained the blonde's dark blue jeans, her long sleeved black and white striped shirt, her forehead. Her hair, tied in a limp ponytail, damp from exhaustion and the noonday heat, clung to the skin on the back of her neck. The hole beside the pine tree wasn't much to look at. Six feet in length and three feet wide, it was nothing more than a shallow ditch and Ruth refused to leave Walt's body where zombies or wild animals could easily get to him. It was the least she could do for him after all he'd done, after what he'd left to her and the Lost Boys.

The man deserved a grave. A proper burial.

She'd found three shovels in the man's truckbed and took one for herself. Digging through the hard, dry dirt was tougher than she'd expected and in an hour's time, she realized she hadn't made much leeway. Walt's body was still propped up against the pine where she'd left him after shooting him twice - once in the shoulder (her hand had been shaking so hard it had thrown her aim off) and once where it counted, just like he'd taught her. His last instructions to her had been to leave his body, to drive off as soon as the deed was done and retrieve his belongings from his home, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead, she'd retched on the side of the road, down on her hands and knees, fingers digging uselessly into the dirt. She'd cleaned herself off, she'd sat in the truck with the engine idling, staring at the pine, at the man's silhouette beneath the branches of the tree, her mind still reeling at the events of the past few hours. She didn't remember if she started crying again or, if she had, when she stopped. She didn't remember taking his gun and tucking it into the back of jeans but she remembered thinking that his body needed to be buried. She remembered the sound of the shovel hitting the dirt as she made her first cut into the dark earth.

Sighing, arms sore and eyes weary, Ruth paused again, stabbing the shovel into the dirt and leaning her lithe frame against it. Everytime she closed her eyes, she saw them, the ghostly pale faces of the undead as they surrounded Walt. She could hear them groaning, the voices that had once been human dry and cracked and unrecognizable. She could hear the sound of the gun going off - two shots one after the other. The images replayed themselves in her mind over and over again and she couldn't help but wonder how long it'd take before she could forget, if she'd ever forget.

The thought made her feel guilty and she slowly looked back at the man slumped against the tree.

She had to keep digging. The sun was setting now and the air grew crisp. Ruth tugged at her shirt, still sticky with sweat, grit her teeth, and returned her grip to the wooden handle of the shovel as she slammed the tip back into the ground.
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DIARMUID MULLIGAN
Posted: Mar 6 2012, 07:43 PM


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If there was one thing Diarmuid learned about Texas, is was the fact that he hated the climate. To some it might be considerably cooler, but when you came from places were snow was not a fictitious thought, it was still far too warm. The jacket—having swiped it from a small clothing store he saw on his route—was folded, rolled, and tucked away in the satchel bag strapped across his torso. How long had he been walking again? Thank God he maintained a habit of investing in physical wellness, or else walking endlessly would have seemed like torture. At one point he meandered into the woods. Hopefully, the zombie population was low. It was good to be alert…just in case. Diarmiud paused by a tree and heaved a sigh. As hazel eyes surveyed the woodland around him, hands rolled up the sleeves of his blue plaid shirt until they gathered around mid-forearm. He was half tempted to just take the damn thing off and blaze trails in the grey v-neck undershirt, but the long sleeves were a barrier against branches, bugs, and other things that might prove to be a danger to his precious flesh. A hand lifted and fingers raked strands of his hair back, however, they simply fell right back to where they had been. Disregarding it now, Diarmuid adjusted the strap, making it a little more comfortable on his broad shoulder, before continuing onward.As he walked through the woods, a distance sound of metal striking earth echoed. Diarmuid paused, and his heart skipped a beat. At first, the definition of the sound was oblivious to him. Hearing an unnatural sound in the woods was something that made anyone pause…and some shiver in apprehension. Diarmuid blinked, and glanced around, but more importantly: he listened. The repetition of the sound clued piqued his curiosity. Fear urged him to go the other way, but something else compelled him to inch a little close. But, Diarmuid proceeded with caution. Long legs stepped over a fallen log, but took care in how booted soles touched the ground. He ducked behind a tree, and peered around it. Up ahead was a figure digging. Zombies didn’t toil in the earth. Eyebrows furrowed, and Diarmuid inched closer, until he saw the purpose of her digging. She was burying someone.Diarmuid swallowed, and a wave of sympathy washed over him. So many people were burying the ones they cared about. He wasn’t anywhere close to his family…he had no idea if they were alive or not. The lofty Canadian tentatively approached the blonde woman. Hazel eyes glanced to the truck, and saw two more shovels in the bed. With a hand clasping the strap of his bag, Diarmuid paused a few feet away. “My condolences. Would you like some help?” Genuine sympathy twined with his voice. But, she was working pretty hard, alone, and in this heat, the Canadian thought it would be nice to at least help her quickly bury someone she cared about; the sooner she laid them to rest, the less susceptible to attacks she became. There was that saying of by the time you finished one grave, you might as well carve one for yourself, but if two did, perhaps it would negate that phrase. It wasn’t until the blonde turned her head, that his face changed. His brow rose and eyes went wide. “Ruth. Ruth Jablonsk..” He uttered in disbelief. The school nurse. What were the odds of seeing her alive?
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RUTH JABLONSKI
Posted: Mar 7 2012, 12:42 PM


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The ground beneath her feet grew softer, damper, more earthy as she dug deeper and deeper. The soil changed from a dry, cracked reddish brown hue to the dark brown color most people associated with dirt. She was almost done with the grave but the worst part - the hardest part was yet to come. The blonde frowned and focused on the repetitve motion of putting the shovel into the earth and scooping out another layer of rock and root and mineral. Her arms were growing numb and her body felt dehydrated but she couldn't stop. Not yet. She wasn't ready to stop just yet.

The blonde didn't see or hear the stranger approach until he spoke and at the sound of another human voice breaking the monotonous drone of metal-on-dirt, she blonde stiffened and cursed under her breath in surprise. "Jesus," she turned and found herself looking at a man standing by the truck bed.

Ruth was surprised that the stranger should call her by name - by her full name no less - and her eyes narrowed, first in suspicion (and perhaps even fear, the day had been fraught with it, after all) but slowly, the mixed emotions were replaced by curiosity. The stranger - a brown haired young man perhaps a few years her junior - had a familiar face though she couldn't quite place where she'd seen him before. He could have been the older brother of one of the students at the middle school who she might have met with concerning her behavior and the student's - God only knew how many of those meetings Ruth had attended and how many faces she'd seen glaring sternly at her from the other side of the principal's kidney shaped "conference" table. His tone certainly implied that their last meeting didn't end on good terms.

If she'd been in a better mood, she might have smirked at the thought.

Instead, the blonde quirked a brow, pausing from her work in the hole to tilt her head upward at the young man. "Do I know you?" Her tone was flat and far too weary to come off as hostile.

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DIARMUID MULLIGAN
Posted: Mar 10 2012, 01:18 PM


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Diarmuid had no intentions of scaring Ruth, even if he discovered her identity. Digging a grave in the middle of the woods was a dangerous feat. It left her vulnerable to zombies and marauders that decided she had something of value. Pointing out that hazard was pointless; she must have known the risks, but sentimentality ruled her heart and mind. Diarmuid never had to dig a grave for someone, and it looked exhausting, physically and mentally. It wasn’t something he wished on anyone, not even the people who enjoyed making him the root of their jokes. To bury a loved one, friend, or someone you generally got along with was a hard thing to bear. Diarmuid wanted to help, at least lessen the window of vulnerability, if the blonde would let him. He was prepared for her to tell him to ‘piss off’, or something equality as colourful. However, what he wasn’t prepared for was the familiarity of the woman. Ruth Jablonski, the school nurse pretending to be a therapist at a conference months ago for her amusement. Oh, he looked like quite the fool in front of her. Staring at her now, the coy smirk was no longer on her features. That sardonic smile was wiped clean.This was a very different Ruth Jablonski.While he seemed to remember who she was, Ruth failed to recognize him. Was that to his favour? If he was a man that held grudges, Diarmuid might have continued walking, even enjoy her labours as retribution for his humiliation. In some, small way, digging a grave for another seemed akin to punishment…a life’s lesson that she may or may not care to learn. If Diarmuid was truly that bitter of a man, he would have walked away. He didn’t. Instead, he took pity on Ruth. Despite the things she did, no one deserved to lose the ones they cared about in such a gruesome way. Not even her. Shrugging off the bag, Diarmuid reached in his bag and pulled out the bottle of water he managed to come by. Setting his bag on the ground by the tire, Diarmuid grabbed a shove from the bed of the truck with his other hand. At first, he said nothing to Ruth, ignoring her question purposefully. She did know him, or perhaps she put him from her mind the moment he walked away at that convention. Walking toward Ruth, Diarmuid held the bottle of water out, offering it to her. “Here. Drink; you need it.” And the tone in his voice suggested he wasn’t going to be refused. The moment she acquiesced, the lofty Canadian approached the grave. The metal spade struck earth, and scooped up a pile of it. Diarmuid lifted it, and dumped it to the side. He was going to help her dig the grave, whether she liked it or not. “We met once, but I’m sure you forgot about me soon after.” He said, simply, as he carved out another piece of earth. “You called me Molli.”
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RUTH JABLONSKI
Posted: Mar 12 2012, 11:37 AM


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Ruth accepted the bottle of water silently, her eyes still searching Diarmuid's face, trying to place where she'd seen it last. After a moment's hesitation, the blonde gave up and wiped the sweat and dirt from her forehead with the back of her arm before twisting the cap on the water bottle. "Thanks." She watched as the young man approached with a shovel in hand, saying nothing at first as he began to help her dig. Part of Ruth wanted to ask him to stop, to insist that he let her dig Walt's grave on her own. She wasn't sure why she had such an overwhelming desire to put the man to rest by herself but she knew one thing for sure - it would be stupid to turn down someone's help. The grave was almost ready now, judging by its depth, but Ruth had lost a lot of daylight in her lonely pursuit to bury the dead. The blonde set down the bottle by the edge of the grave.

It was when the young man spoke again that Ruth's eyes flickered from her own shovel to him again, this time unable to conceal her surprise. The nickname "Molli" brought back a sudden rush of memories that at any other time, the blonde might have looked back on with a droll smile, an indulgent chuckle, a vague shake of her head, before the images of a naive young man in his suit and tie, nametag pinned to his lapel, faded back into the depths of her mind. That he should be here, at this particular moment, helping her dig a grave for a man he didn't even know however - Ruth was temporarily at a loss for words though her expression made it clear she remembered now. She remembered exactly who the young man was.

"Molli," she repeated the name, inwardly flinching at the sound of it on her tongue. Ruth forced herself to look back at the young man and just over his shoulder, in her peripheral, she could see Walt's body too. " ... Mulligan, right? That's your name." She realized she had never caught his first name. Setting down her shovel again, Ruth shook her head in disbelief. "Jesus, the last time we met - that was months ago. Right before ... ," her voice trailed off. Right before the virus outbreak. The events of the last few hours were still too fresh in her mind and she found herself unable to finish her thought. She shuddered. "Well," She should say something to him, to the young man she'd so cruelly mocked and toyed with for no reason other than the fact that she'd been bored at a psychiatry conference. "I'm glad to see you're still alive." The words weren't necessarily what she'd wanted to say, but Ruth found that she meant them. One more (somewhat) familiar face still alive - that had to count for some sort of victory, didn't it?

For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something else but the words wouldn't come. Instead, Ruth motioned with one hand toward Molli's shovel. "You don't have to help me, it's okay. I just .. I just needed to do this for him."


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DIARMUID MULLIGAN
Posted: Mar 12 2012, 01:38 PM


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No, he didn’t have to help Ruth. He was not in debt to her in any form. What did he owe someone that took joy in ridiculing him in front of his peers? He was made a fool by this woman. But, did that warrant a bitter retribution? For some, perhaps. For a spiteful person, they would leave her to finish the grave, or perhaps even push her in it. Diarmuid was not that sort of person, however. He wasn’t cold or heartless. He gave her water because she needed it, and it was something he would want a stranger to do. There was more to Ruth, and there was something about seeing her slaving over a grave that humbled his perspective of her. She could care about other people; it was evident here. So, after handing the bottle of water to her, Diarmuid took the shovel and picked up where she left off. He dug at the earth, carving out a deeper hole that Animals—and zombies—would not get to easily. Ruth stared at him (he could feel her questioning gaze). It didn’t stop his actions, however. With a name slip, it would all click into place…if she did not forget about his name after he left months ago.But, surprisingly, Ruth remembered him.In fact, she recalled his entire last name. Diarmuid was stunned by that. Pleasantly, though, much to his astonishment. “Mulligan is just my last name, actually. It’s Diarmuid, but people call me Molli because it’s easier, and funnier to say.” He replied, before striking the earth with the end of his shovel again. People found too much enjoyment calling him ‘Molli’, and pointing out the fact that it sounded like a girl’s name. These days, the joke was old to him and something he got rather use to. The last time they ran into each other was months ago, not long before the world turned upside-down and undead people turned to cannibalism. “Yup, pretty much.” A sigh escaped his lips, as he paused to take a breath. Diarmuid excepted some commandment to leave, following her ‘well’. Perhaps she wanted to be alone, and he was encroaching on her moment of privacy. His head turned and hazel eyes settled on her. What came after her introductory word was another shocking statement. Was she truly glad to see him alive? More importantly, what compelled her to extend such a…compliment. Compared to the Ruth he ran into at the conference, she was completely different.His face betrayed his surprise as his forehead wrinkled with the lifting of eyebrows. “What?” He muttered, in disbelief. Blinking several times, he attempted to swallow his shock. It was still nice for her to say something so small, even if she didn’t mean it. Ruth made an effort to say it, and that meant more to him than her actual statement. “It’s good to see you alive, too.” Diarmuid didn’t want to see anyone die, even if they weren’t exactly nice to him. He really should get back to digging. Fingers adjusted around the shovel’s handle, awkwardly, before he went back to the task of shoveling out more dirt and soil. Since Ruth said no more, he assumed she was done talking. But, clearly he was wrong. He didn’t have to help, but she looked like she needed it. “You look like you’re about to collapse right now, Ruth, and I thought you could use the extra hand.” Diarmuid didn’t know the man, but if he was important enough for Ruth to dig a grave for, that was all the more reason to help. “I’ll help you see to it that he gets what he deserves.” And not to be lunch for some zombie or scavenger. Once the hole was deep enough, Diarmuid set the shovel aside and walked over to the man. With care, he picked up the body and placed him in the ground.
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RUTH JABLONSKI
Posted: Mar 13 2012, 01:14 PM


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Normally, she would have been inclined to agree with his statement - Molli was funnier to say though "Diarmuid" was definitely a close second. Instead of commenting on the unfortunate nickname however, Ruth merely nodded her head. "Diarmuid." In that one name, in that one word, the blonde seemed to reveal everything she was feeling. The word sounded tired, weary, lacking in the same lively attitude and sarcasm that usually lingered in Ruth's tone. The truth of the matter was, she was tired. She felt exhausted in mind and body and if it weren't for the presence of another living, breathing human being around Ruth was sure she might dissolve into tears again only this time, not out of sadness or fear or to mourn the loss of a life but out of an almost childlike sense of overwhelming frustration. For the moment, she managed to hold it together despite feeling like she was unraveling right where she stood.

Noticing the young man's look of surprise, Ruth couldn't help but wonder - just how terrible had she been to him? Had it always been like this? In her mind, her actions and words were just jokes. They were harmless and even clever, if she said so herself, but was she the only one who'd thought that all this time? The revelation was something of an unpleasant shock to her and the blonde tried to shake off another wave of guilt as she tried to find something to say. "Don't look so surprised. With people dropping left and right, it's nice to see living faces now and then." She glanced at Diarmuid and sighed. "Yeah ... well. Maybe I'll collapse after this is done." She attempted to smile though the expression faltered and for a moment, Ruth was grateful for the silence between them as they dug.

Ruth watched as Diarmuid set aside his shovel, as he made his way toward the pine and placed Walt into his grave. Standing on the edge of the hole peering down, the blonde stared stonily at the man who'd given his life to save hers. He looked much smaller in death, she realized. He almost didn't look like the same man who earlier that day had been cursing and spitting at zombies, fighting through them and cutting them down with every inch of him. The blonde wondered if they would all look like that in death - if she would seem so small and pale and helpless to somebody else.

"Thank you," her voice was a hoarse whisper and though she was addressing Diarmuid, her eyes stayed on Walt. She might have been speaking to both of them. Shovel in hand, Ruth scooped a fresh turn of earth and laid it into the grave. The dirt hit the body with a soft thud. "He saved my life," she laid another shovel full of dirt into the grave. "Walter Fischer was a veteran, a soldier, and a friend." Another dull thud. "He and I were never very close but William Harper respected him and that was good enough for us. I'm sorry I never treated you better or made an effort to reach out to you more in life -" Her voice cracked and words were spilling out now whether Ruth wanted them to or not. "I should have been nicer to you, I should have listened more and been less of a jerk. You saved my life even though I'd been nothing but a smartass to you." There was a wrenching feeling in the pit of her stomach. "Rest in peace, Walter Fischer." Ruth sniffed and realized she was crying again. "Goddamnit," she muttered, shooting a quick glance over at Diarmuid, half hoping he hadn't noticed. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and finished filling in the grave, using the work as an excuse not to talk.

It was only when the body was buried, when the grave was filled and the earth on top of it smoothed out and marked with a large stone that Ruth finally turned back to Diarmuid. "If you want a ride or anything back into town, you can come with me. I need to get to Walt's cabin." She didn't say anything about the words spoken over the dead man's grave but moved toward the vehicle and tossed her shovel back into the truck bed.

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DIARMUID MULLIGAN
Posted: Mar 30 2012, 11:39 AM


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Hard as it might be to believe, Ruth wasn’t the worst person to ridicule and embarrass him. Diarmuid experienced far more vicious bullies in his life, and yet, the older he got the easier it became to ignore. Yes, for that day Ruth’s cruel joke made him feel foolish, but soon after he moved on from it. The Ruth in front of him, now, was a very different woman. Thus, it proved she was a complex woman. There was depth to her character, and presently he caught a glimpse of it. Ruthless people who cared not for the feelings of others or had emotion investment in anything other than themselves would not be slaving over a grave. If she did not have a heart, she wouldn’t be bothering to bury someone she called a friend…or even out of gratitude. It was true: people were dropping left and right. People died at such a rapid pace that burying them became a hazard. So, why would Ruth risk being attacked by a zombie or group of looters just to bury this person? Diarmuid was…intrigued, especially from a psychological perspective. Had Diarmuid not intervened, Ruth might have collapsed from dehydration, exhaustion, heat, or perhaps all of the above.For a moment, only silence passed between them as they finished carving the grave. With the grave deep enough, Diarmuid traded the shove for the body of the man she knew. With reverence and care, the lofty French Canadian laid Walter to rest. As he straightened, and reached for the shovel once more, Ruth’s thanksgiving made him pause. Eyes glanced to her, and yet her gaze lingered on the body in the grave a little longer. Was she speaking to him or the lifeless man? Diarmuid assumed the latter, and clutched the shovel’s handle. The metal spade dug into the pile of earth he made, and tossed a scoop into the hole. As they filled it, Ruth began to speak. Fearing that Ruth would close up (deny not only him information, but bottle her feelings about the matter), he said nothing. Instead, he listened. Occasionally his gaze drifted to her profile, but he dared not interrupt. In Memoriam.Resquiescat in Pace.Diarmuid nodded his head to the man, now under layers of earth. He heard the sniff, and glanced long enough to see the tears glistening in the dappled sunlight. But, he quickly diverted his gaze before Ruth looked his away. Diarmuid did not need to know much about Ruth to know she was a proud woman, and guarded her emotions fiercely. Her sarcasm, apathy, was simply a mask…armour. Many people saw tears as weakness…but Diarmuid didn’t. In fact, it was just the opposite. To cry meant caring, and there was far too little empathy these days. There was more to Ruth than he anticipated…and he was pleasantly surprised. The shovel hissed as it picked up another load of soil. Diarmuid pretended as if he never heard Ruth’s sniffling…even though he did. To highlight it meant Ruth would close herself off from him and the world. Ruth needed to release some measure of tension and emotion for her sake. Finishing the task at hand was excuse enough for them not to talk and dwell in their minds.Once the deed was done, however, the excuse became fleeting. Ruth smoothed the top of the grave, and while she did that, Darmuid picked up his shovel and placed it back on the bed of the truck. The back of his hand wiped his brow and the sweat that gathered. Turning around, hazel eyes shifted to Ruth. Her offer was generous…and unexpected. Diarmuid blinked. “Uhm…yeah…yeah that would be great.” He nodded. It certainly would be faster than walking back to the city. Picking up his bag and the water, the bottle was placed back in his bag. “Thanks for the offer. I appreciate it.” Diarmuid wanted to comment on her change in demeanour, but with someone like Ruth…it was risky. She could let more bottled emotions come out…or she could snap at him and withdraw her offer. “But, I think you should take a break first. I bet you’ve been out here for a few hours. Have some more water and sit down. You can’t get to Walt’s cabin if you’ve collapsed.” He pointed out.
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RUTH JABLONSKI
Posted: Apr 2 2012, 12:12 PM


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Joined: 23-December 11



It probably would have been easier to function in a post-apocalyptic society if Ruth was genuinely heartless, if she really were as uncaring and uninterested in the lives of others as she tried to be. If she really were that detached she certainly wouldn't be feeling like some invisible hand was trying to carve her heart out of her chest with a dull spoon at that particular moment. Death was nothing new to her by then. Hell, the deaths of people she'd come to know were par for the course (to a certain extent) but each time, it still left her feeling just a little more hollow, a little more helpless than before. Death was inevitable - she wasn't stupid enough to believe it could be escaped - but despite this knowledge, there was still a part of the blonde who wanted to do something about it, who wanted to somehow prevent it from happening not all the time but maybe once or twice. She wanted to cheat death every now and then as if by doing so, she were somehow giving the Reaper himself the finger.

The mental image of flipping off some black hooded figure holding a scythe made her feel slightly better.

Usually, the blonde would have been annoyed at having a witness around to see her in a moment of weakness but she was far too tired and emotionally drained to feel anything but a sudden desire to curl up somewhere dark and cool and sleep for an entire week straight. She'd have to save the snippy comments and sarcasm for another time, when her mind was sharper. Diarmuid accepted the ride and to her surprise, the blonde found herself glad that he did. After what happened with Walt, she wanted to be able to do something good - something that was helpful for someone else. Despite the exhaustion the blonde managed to roll her eyes at herself. She was going soft.

"It's the least I could do for ..." she began, her voice trailing off. For what? Her thoughts returned to the first time the two of them had met and Ruth shrugged away the memories. "For your help."

Sighing, the blonde nodded at the young man's next suggestion. "Yeah, you're probably right but the sooner we get going the better. I don't like the idea of being out here when it gets dark." Plus, having someone in the truck with her for company would help keep her awake. Ruth didn't give voice to that last thought. Instead, her eyes flickered wearily upward toward the ever darkening sky. Where did the time go? How long had she been in the woods digging? Shaking her head softly, Ruth seemed to realize for the first time just how long she'd been on her feet. Approaching the truck and wrenching the driverside door open, she sank into the seat and let out another sigh, this one tinged with relief. A dull ache in her shoulders was slowly but efficiently moving its way down her spine and she frowned as she tilted her head, motioning for Diarmuid to get into the truck. "Check the glove compartment for me, will you? See if there's aspirin or something in there."

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