And then, she came along. She was young—nineteen, maybe twenty—standing at the iron gate in soaked clothes, hair flat against her face, a worn canvas backpack over one shoulder. She looked directly into the camera lens. Not nervously, neither with hope.
Her name was Wren. Just Wren. She offered no surname. Her green eyes moved too quickly, cataloguing the guards, the gate architecture, the ivy along the eastern wall. She wasn’t afraid. She was the kind of person who assessed everything before deciding whether fear was the appropriate response.